


Thirty-Three

by devovitsuasartes



Series: Like Minds [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:15:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devovitsuasartes/pseuds/devovitsuasartes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after the end of Assassin's Creed: Revelations. Desmond escapes the synch nexus and wakes up in the Animus. Unfortunately, he doesn't wake up alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before Assassin's Creed III came out. In fact, it was written only a month or so after the release of ACR, and is based around a rough guess at what events might have followed once the modern Assassins reached the last temple. It is, of course, completely wrong (I'd be very scared if I'd got it all exactly right), and so is AU for ACIII but in canon for the rest of the series.
> 
> This was originally on ff.net, I'm importing it here with a few tweaks and improvements. Enjoy.

Emerging from the Animus program had always had a sensation similar to that of waking up from a long sleep, but now it felt as though he were a sabretooth tiger who had fallen into a tar pit and spent 8 agonising hours dragging himself back to the edge and back out of the greedy, clasping blackness. Even as he opened his eyes in the van and saw the blurred outlines of people, he could still see Constantinople on the edges of his vision like an afterimage, and feel the wheedling tug of the Animus trying to pull him back.

Or perhaps it wasn't the Animus. Perhaps it was just Desmond, the same old Desmond who had run away from his destiny all those years ago and now was trying to run away from the truth of Lucy, and the truth of what he had done and what he had to do.

As he clawed his way back into the present day, he could hear Shaun, Rebecca and his father saying things to him that he couldn't quite make out. And then, strangest of all, he heard himself say something to them, though he couldn't quite make the words.

Suddenly a wave of exhaustion came crashing over him and he realised that none of his time in the Animus had ever been spent sleeping, and as rested as his physical body might be his mind hadn't taken a break in weeks.

"I need to sleep," he said aloud, almost automatically.

"Are you joking?" Shaun demanded, and his usual tone of mild contempt was tinged with something deeper and uglier.

"Shaun!" Rebecca said warningly. "Let's go back to the safehouse in the town. Now we know where the temple is, there's no need to rush things."

"He's done nothing but lie there for weeks while we drag him around like a hatbox. Now he's just said he knows exactly what to do, and suddenly he feels like a little nap? For God's sake..."

The rant continued, but Desmond felt his father's hand on his shoulder and Shaun's voice became fuzzy, like a radio going out of tune, just as William's became louder and clearer. "It's alright, son," he said solemnly, and Desmond laid back down on the seat of the Animus and fell into a slumber so deep that when they got back to the New York safehouse he had to be half-carried inside to a bed.

* * *

In his free and hedonistic life as a bartender, Desmond had had quite a few one night stands. Sometimes in the morning the girl would still be there and sometimes she would be gone, and somehow he was always able to tell whether he was alone in the bed even before he had opened his eyes.

On this morning, Desmond woke up and knew straight away that he wasn't alone. He stayed very still, counting to ten in his head, and then got out of bed and put on some clothes he didn't recognise, that were laid out on the dresser.

This safehouse was nicer than the warehouse that Lucy had first brought him to, and was free of the decay that had affected the Monteriggioni villa. It had the air of an old family home, and his room had a modest en-suite bathroom. Desmond walked in, closed the door behind him, and brushed his teeth in order to delay the moment in which he'd have to confront his suspicions. There was a mirror above the sink, but he avoided looking in it until he had rinsed out his mouth completely. Finally he raised his head, stared straight into his own eyes, and thought as clearly as he could: _Can you hear me?_

Nothing happened. Well, at least his thoughts were his own.

This time he asked another question, out loud. "Is it you?"

 _Who else?_ replied Subject Sixteen.


	2. I Didn't Dream

Desmond backed up against the bathroom door and sank to the floor, shaking. Admittedly he had suspected this, but the difference between suspecting something and experiencing the evidence of it so immediately and unavoidably was enough to knock the wind out of him. His heart pounded in his chest and he felt pinned in place with the depth of unease that had been triggered by hearing Sixteen speak.

_Hey, enough with the panic attack, you're making me nervous!_

"How much of my brain are you accessing right now?" Desmond asked, keeping his voice as low and controlled as he could manage.

_I can't hear your thoughts, but I can feel what you feel, so for a start I know these bathroom tiles are so cold that your ass is going numb. I've got access to all five senses, I can get a gauge on your emotions from their physical symptoms, and apparently I'm mixed up with a neurone cluster that allows me to communicate with you. That's all._

"My memories?"

_Can't even get near them. In your brain, I'm just a little short guy and your memories are on the top shelf._

"How did this happen?"

_It was the only way I could protect you from deletion once the Animus find you. You never would have made it out of there without me guiding you every step of the way, and that meant holding the EXIT door for you. I'm sorry, I didn't intend this._

In the part of his mind that Sixteen couldn't reach, Desmond allowed himself a scornful laugh. He remembered the wheedling conversation on the beach and the request for a ride-along ticket out of the Animus. Perhaps Sixteen had genuinely wanted to help him, but he was shrewd and a schemer, and had known exactly what he was doing. Still, if he hadn't acted when he did then Desmond would probably still be trapped in the machine, or worse, so he couldn't quite bring himself to hate the man. Not quite.

Fearing him? That was a different story.

"Did you sleep when I did?"

_You could say that. I didn't dream, though._

"Neither did I."

_Interesting._

"What the hell am I supposed to do?"

_Damned if I know, I'm just a voice in your head. Personally, I think you should ruminate a little about how much you trust these people. Maybe it's better if they continue to think you don't remember anything._

"But I  _don't_ remember anything."

_That's the spirit._

* * *

Sixteen never spoke of his own accord, but whenever Desmond asked him something he would reply straight away, enough to make it clear that he was always watching, always alert. The fact that Desmond couldn't even feel Sixteen's presence in any tangible way only made it worse.

There was something else he used to enjoy a lot that he now felt handcuffed from doing. The weeks spent inside the Animus reliving the near-celibate memories of Ezio in his golden years meant that Desmond hadn't felt anything close to release since living in the villa safehouse, and he'd lost track of how long it had been since he'd had sex. With all the end-of-the-world panic he'd at least been distracted enough that sexual frustration was on the bottom of his list of concerns, but with this period of waiting and inactivity as he worked to unravel the clues that Ezio and the First People had left him, his mind often wandered into areas ... unrelated to research.

Each time it was the same. He'd feel the urge as a twist of heat in his lower abdomen and would reach for himself, but in a sudden jolt he would remember the silent watcher in the back of his mind and would immediately jump into a cold shower, or dive furiously back into research materials. There was no way he was going to whack off with Sixteen watching; it was bad enough that the guy came along for the ride whenever Desmond used the bathroom. He always got changed looking directly ahead, rather than down at his body, and avoided catching sight of himself in the bathroom mirror when he got out of the shower. He didn't hum, or whistle, or do anything else he might otherwise have done when alone. Being constantly on his guard was exhausting.

Rebecca, Shaun and his father all wanted him to use the Animus again.

"I'm telling you, Desmond, you just need to take another look at that sequence in the library again," Rebecca insisted for the umpteenth time. "That's where all the big juicy clues are. You said that Ezio practically handed them straight to you! You just need to see it again with a clearer head."

"Or a different head altogether, if only that were possible," Shaun said coldly, not looking up from his computer screen.

The situation was tense. Shaun and Rebecca were both frustrated that they had made the mad dash over here, nearly getting caught with fake papers, only to find themselved bogged down in long days of research that could be easily circumvented simply by Desmond using the Animus again.

Also, there was Lucy. There was always Lucy. In every room, in every glance, in the aborted sentences of their conversations. He felt Rebecca's horror and pity, as she silently wondered what he must be going through, knowing that it was his blade that took her life. He felt Shaun's hate, bred from his existing resentment. Desmond may not have murdered Lucy, not really, but to Shaun it would never matter. Desmond was the idiot who had been born with a golden ticket into the Brotherhood and had thrown it away, only to come back and tear everything to pieces. Any chance of mutual respect there might have been was dead now, and he and Shaun prowled around each other warily like predatory cats, each of them waiting for the other to strike first.

His father was there, with the same patience and faith that had unfuriated Desmond as a teenager. His father never reprimanded him for running away, because it wasn't in his nature to consider his son a failure, and his trust was almost the hardest to bear. Despite their long separation and the resentment that Desmond still felt, there was a part of him deep down that still loved his father with the involuntary unconditional love of a son, but he couldn't let that machine get its hooks into his brain again. The Animus had tried to kill him once, and ever since then he had been unable to escape from the fact that it was the Templars who had first plugged him into an Animus and begun tearing his mind apart.


	3. Failsafe

It had been three days since Desmond had returned from the Animus, and he was still refusing to even touch the thing. Even researching the books left behind was enough to make his skin crawl, so vivid were the ancestral memories that such activities aroused in his mind, and so Desmond had left the books behind and was lying in bed, fiddling with a Rubik's cube, too stupid and logic-barren to solve it.

 _They're waiting for you_ , Sixteen said.

As usual, Desmond started at the clarity of the thought as it bloomed inside his head, but this time it was even more unsettling than usual. Sixteen had never before initiated one of their conversations. Perhaps he had chosen a policy of not speaking unless spoken to out of consideration for Desmond's sanity, but it had the opposite effect; the less frequently Sixteen spoke, the more jarring it was when he actually did.

"I know they are, alright?" Desmond said at last, defensively. "They're making that pretty damn clear. So forgive me, but I don't need the guy who climbed his way into my brain uninvited _reminding_ me when I'm trying to get away from all that."

Silence. Desmond threw the Rubik's cube up in the air and caught it.

"What do you think I should do?"

_I think you should play catch and whine like a bitch. Oh, look at that, good job._

Desmond heard the mocking tone and tried to stop his blood pressure rising and cheeks flushing in anger. He hated that he had unable to withhold his emotions from Sixteen, that the man could always immediately tell when a jibe had been successful. "I'm not going back in the Animus," was his snapped response.

_Hey, I'm as sick of the place as you are._

"I'm not just sick of it, it's dangerous. It _killed_  you."

Sixteen didn't reply, but Desmond had a sudden and unmistakeable realisation that he had gone too far. Perhaps he was finally able to attune himself to Sixteen's emotions as well, or perhaps it was just obvious that reminding a guy of his own violent, insanity-driven suicide was a dick move.

It might have been the guilt that did it. One minute Desmond was looking at the Rubik's cube in his hand, and the next second he had allowed his hand to go limp and the toy to roll onto the floor. He stared at his hand and tried to wiggle the fingers, but he might as well have been trying to lift a lorry off the ground telepathically. He was sure that if he wanted to he could regain control of the body part, but for now he was in an experimental mood.

 _What are you doing?_  For the first time since the glyph-bound audio messages, Sixteen sounded afraid and uncertain.

"I want to see something. Try moving my hand."

There was a short pause in which nothing happened. Then, Desmond watched as his hand curled into a fist and then uncurled again, seemingly of its own volition. The sight of it filled him with the sensation that a hundred beetles were crawling up his spine, and another hundred fighting each other in his stomach. Desmond snatched back control of his hand and brought it up to his chest, covering it quickly with his other hand as if afraid it might try to walk right off the end of his arm.

Sixteen didn't speak, but Desmond suddenly had the impression that somewhere inside him the man was holding his breath, waiting to see how Desmond was going to react. He didn't even know himself, but he knew that he had walked the edge of something extremely dangerous and his heart was pounding madly. He had felt this many times before in the Animus, when Ezio or Altair had stepped too close to the edge of a high roof and there had been that sickening feeling just before regaining his balance, as the expanse of air yawned beneath him.

"Desmond..."

"Would you please just shut the fuck up?"

"Well I'd like to, Desmond, but some of us are getting a little bit concerned about the imminent end of life as we know it, and I was wondering when you were going to start taking an interest!"

Desmond started out of bed, realising that it was not Sixteen who had spoken but Shaun, who was standing in the doorway with his arms folded, looking equal parts confused, angry and contemptuous. Desmond didn't know how to explain himself, since at some point he had decided that it was very important he kept Subject Sixteen a secret from the others, so he opted for humility.

"I'm sorry, Shaun. I didn't mean that."

If anything, Shaun looked even more unnerved than before by Desmond's sudden change of attitude, but he soon recovered his composure. "Taking a little snooze, were you? Well, you've had a long day, what with all the lying around and not doing anything, it must get pretty wearing."

Desmond was strongly tempted to tell him to shut the fuck up again. Or just hit him.

"Rebecca's finished tuning up the Animus," Shaun went on, pushing his glasses up his nose in an unconscious gesture of self-composure. "There are a thousand failsafes in place..."

"It was a _failsafe_ that nearly killed me last time I was in that thing."

"Oh don't be so dramatic, if we hadn't got you into the Animus after ... after what happened at the Colosseum then who knows what state you'd be in now! It's just a tool, Desmond, and it's one that could save all our lives if you'd just use it..."

"Yeah? Try telling that to the sixteen other test subjects the Templars used before me," Desmond snapped, remembering the moment back in the warehouse when he had first started to see those silvery ghosts in his field of vision, and the point at which they had swallowed up the world and cast him violently into a waking dream state. "I need a break from it or the bleeding effect..."

"We don't have time for you to take a break, Desmond! The Animus is ready and we're all tired of you procrastinating. You've got five minutes, and then I want you downstairs."

He stormed out, leaving the door wide open, and so Desmond picked up the Rubik's cube and threw it viciously after him. It bounced off the wall in the hallway and left a dent. Shaun must have heard it, but he didn't come back.

_You really trust these people, Seventeen?_

Desmond knew precisely why Sixteen was calling him that, and it angered him even more. "They rescued me from the Templars."

_You mean the Templars who forced you to use the Animus against your will? Yeah, I can see how you dodged a bullet there._


	4. Water And Oil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've written four stories around Clay and Desmond: Thirty-Three and its sequel Mad to Live, plus Synchronous and a sequel called Disparate. William Miles appears in both stories but his characterisation varies a little between them. Looking back at all the stories, it occurs to me that I'm probably giving the impression that I don't like Bill, when in fact I think he's a fascinating character and I have quite a bit of respect for him.

"Is he coming?" Rebecca asked nervously, as Shaun returned with a tight-lipped expression.

"He'd better be."

"You don't think we're pushing him too hard, Shaun? After everything he's been through ... it can't hurt to give him a week off. Besides, it's still summer, we've got half a year before the solar flares are supposed to hit."

Shaun sat down at his desk and turned on his computer, preparing to provide information that Desmond might need whilst in the Animus. "Oh, how silly of me. Yes, the absolute destruction of all life as we know it is still six months away! Nothing to worry about yet, we might as well put up our feet and work on our tans. Rebecca, we have no idea how long it'll take us to learn to control what's inside that vault without blowing ourselves up. We need to get inside and see what's in there. Desmond can have all the therapy he wants when we're still alive in 2013."

"Are you going to be footing the bill for that, Shaun, or are you volunteering yourself as my personal counsellor?" Desmond asked, stepping into the room and deliberately looking both of the other Assassin's square in the eyes. Shaun flushed a little but refuse to avert his gaze.

"Desmond!" Rebecca exclaimed, not sure if she felt relieved or guilty to see him. "How are you...?"

"Save it," Desmond replied holding up a hand. "Let's just do this, and the less I have to think about it the better."

Their current safehouse lab was on old circular ballroom, its design not dissimilar to the vault in Monterrigioni. The walls were lined with mirrors, so it seemed as though dozens of Desmonds were walking towards the Animus. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as he looked at the faintly threatening red leather of the seat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his reflections in the mirrors shift and ripple, so that suddenly one mirror showed Altair, another showed Ezio, still another showed a man in a First World War Spanish army uniform whom he didn't recognize. On the far side of the room, he could have sworn he saw Subject Sixteen wearing Assassin's garb. Then all of his reflections flickered again and he only saw himself.

He laid down on the Animus. Rebecca began tapping away at some of the controls.

"Where's my father?"

Rebecca still didn't quite meet his eye. "He had to meet some other Assassins, across town."

"Does he know about this?"

"Just relax, Desmond."

"I asked you a question."

Shaun span around on his chair and glared at him. "For the last time, Desmond, would you shut up and get back into your ancestor's memories? I'd like to live to be an ancestor myself one day."

Desmond snorted. "Well, whoever you pick to bear your spawn, she's going to be a lucky lady."

"Luckier than some," Shaun said darkly, and Desmond knew he was talking about Lucy, he _knew_ , and he felt a wave of rage pass over and through him and decided that he really felt like violently killing a patrol of unsuspecting guards.

* * *

 

Desmond opened his eyes in the cool blue of the Animus loading screen, which always felt to him like being underwater. He felt the strands of Ezio's life at his fingertips and began reaching for those moments right at the end, just before the elderly Assassin had spoken his name and laid down his hidden blades. Even after all this time, it was still a struggle.

"Wow, you're kind of bad at that."

Desmond looked over his shoulder and saw Subject Sixteen - the "real" Subject Sixteen and not just the voice in his head - sitting on what passed for a floor in the Animus, in the same outfit that he'd always appeared in when they spoke on Animus Island. Perhaps these were the clothes he had died in, or just ones that he'd felt comfortable in. Staring at Subject Sixteen with the unanswered questions flashing through his head, Desmond lost his concentration and felt the memories slip away from him.

Sixteen laughed strangely and stood up. "Don't take that as an insult. I got really good at finding my way around ... right before I cut myself open in fifty different places and smeared messages all over the walls in my own blood. There are some life skills that just aren't worth it." He stepped a little closer to Desmond.

"We've been separated again," Desmond said slowly, looking into the stormy grey of Sixteen's eyes, down at his own body and then at the other man's. He looked so solid. Desmond could even smell him when he was this close, a combination of his natural, slightly musky scent and some cheap industrial brand of soap. It was hard to believe that they were both essentially just computer programs. Was Desmond imagining this warmth, this presence, these details which shouldn't have been there? Was his brain filling in the gaps?

"We were never really meshed, I was just lodging in your brain," Sixteen replied. "The only way I even managed _that_ trick was by grabbing onto you and holding on for dear life so that the Animus couldn't kick you out without kicking me out along with you. But in here? We sprang apart..." He made a gesture with his hands. "Like water and oil."

Suddenly Rebecca's voice cut in. "Desmond, what the hell is taking so long? Why aren't you in Ezio's memories yet? I'm seeing some weird activity here. Is something wrong?"

They had both looked up instinctively at the sound of her voice. Desmond was the first to look down, though, which was why the other man was taken completely off his guard when the Desmond drew back his fist and slammed it into Sixteen's solar plexus as hard as he could, hard enough to drive all the air out of his lungs and leave the man curled foetally on the ground, trying with desperate heaves to draw in a breath.

Desmond didn't wait. He started sprinting as fast as he could away from Sixteen without looking back, sprinting into the endless expanse of the Animus, delirious at the prospect of his sudden freedom. "Rebecca!" he screamed. "Get me out of here! Pull me out, now!

"What? Desmond, what's wrong?"

"Just do it, goddamnit!" Absurdly, he found himself getting out of breath. His lungs, which didn't really exist, weren't getting enough virtual air. This was probably the fault of his own brain for being too damn literal.

Before Rebecca could reply, he heard his father's voice echo around him. "What's going on? Why is he in that thing again? How dare you put him back in without telling me?"

"Mr Miles, I'm sorry..."

"To hell with your sorries, what's wrong with him? His brain activity is going nuts, it looks like he's about to have an aneurysm. Desmond! Son, pull yourself out of there."

"He's right," said a hoarse voice. Desmond took the shock as an opportunity to collapse to his knees. Somehow, in running in a straight line away from Subject Sixteen, he had arrived right back where he had started. The other man was now sitting up and breathing, but his face looked pained and his breath whistled every time he drew it inwards. Apparently Sixteen had a very literal mind as well. "They can't ... pull you out ... without risking ... damage. You have to ... exit the Animus ... independently."

Desmond couldn't help himself. He rested his hands on his knees and laughed a low laugh that had tears in it. The man was still trying to help him.

"You didn't have ... to do that, you know," Sixteen said, in the same quiet, pained voice. "I only... came back with you ... the first time because it was necessary. Now that you've recovered ... you can return to your body by yourself."

"But you didn't want me to," Desmond said slowly. "You kept telling me not to give in to them, to resist coming back in here."

Sixteen avoided any direct eye contact, but he couldn't disguise the anguish on his face. "I ... had forgotten. The Animus is so good that it creates a perfect approximation of life." He waved his hand, indicating the loading platform around them. "Look at this place. We're breathing, we're sitting on this surface, we can run and jump and feel the impact. You can even punch me in the stomach and I feel pain. _Lots_  of pain, by the way. And I'll bet that the Black Room felt to you just like a real island.

"But it's not reality. Just an estimation of it. And when we were ... outside ... it was incredible. The sensations, the tastes, the smells, the genuine interaction. It was like eating nothing but lettuce for five years and then suddenly being handed a slow-cooked steak in a fine restaurant. So yes, I tried to delay this moment as much as I could. It was wrong, and selfish, and now I'm back here I regret it. It's going to take me a while to forget all that again." Now that he had his breath back, he spoke in short, clipped, bitter tones.

After a long moment of contemplation he stood up, and Desmond found himself doing the same. Subject Sixteen managed a smile. "You won't find anything new by revisiting those memories, trust me. The information's already in your head, and as great as the Animus is, it's not going to be able to help you this time. Only you can do that." He held out his hand. "Good luck to you, Desmond Miles."

Desmond looked down at the hand in front of him. His eyes fixed on Sixteen's palm, he asked, "What's your name?"

"You didn't know? They didn't tell you?"

"No."

Subject Sixteen lowered his hand, looked down and shook his head. "Of course they didn't." He looked back at Desmond. "It's Clay. Clay Kaczmarek."

"Clay Kaczmarek," Desmond repeated, stumbling a little on the Polish name. This time he was the first to hold out his hand, and Clay shook it firmly. "It's good to know you."

And with that, he suddenly pulled Clay forward by the hand into a tight vice-grip of a hug, much like the one he'd been given the last time they'd left the Animus.

"What are you doing?" Clay asked, panicked but not struggling.

"Clay Kaczmarek. You're coming with me," Desmond replied, simultaneously thrilled and frightened by the weight of his decision, but steadfast in his belief that it was the only decent path. He began the mental process required to exit the Animus as his father's shouting reached a crescendo around him.

The last thing he felt before returning to his body was Clay Kaczmarek resting his head on his shoulder in acceptance, and the feel of strong fingers clutching at his back, digging into him in a wordless and helpless expression of gratitude.

 


	5. In Here With You

Desmond lay on his back on the hillside with his eyes closed, listening to the soft  _whump-whump-whump_  of the wind turbines overhead. The sun was warm on his face but there was a soft breeze to counter it. Suddenly, inside his head, he heard someone singing softly, and smiled as he realised it was Sixteen - Clay - crooning a classic rock song. He couldn't hold a tune, but he made up for it in enthusiasm.

 _Dun-dah-_ dah  _... You feeling any vibes yet, Desmond?_   he asked during an instrumental section.

"You're not exactly helping," Desmond replied. He rolled over onto his stomach and looked over at the van, where Rebecca was sitting inside with a computer and his father was unloading bits of equipment. At some point it had been quietly decided that it would be a good idea to keep Shaun and the Mileses separate for a while, so the historian was back at the safehouse.

There had been a fight, and it hadn't been pretty. There wasn't much shouting, because that wasn't how William Miles liked to handle such situations, but Desmond had never seen Shaun looking so humbled. Rebecca had come along today, he knew, to make up for going behind William's back. Desmond had offered at first to help them set up but had quickly realised that he had no idea what he was doing. So he had come over here and left them to it. Let Rebecca be the daughter William had never had. With everything the man had been through, he surely deserved better than Desmond.

 _Anyone ever tell you that crying isn't manly?_  Clay asked cheerfully.

"I'm not crying!" Desmond snapped, a little too loudly. He saw Rebecca look over in his direction but was unable to make out her expression at this distance.

 _Never said you were, I was just making small talk_.

"I think I preferred it when you were singing."

For something to do, he opened up his eagle vision and began to look around for clues, something that would somehow bypass the many miles of digging surely required to reach the ancient laboratory buried somewhere beneath the hill. His stomach twisted as he began to see silvery shades all around him. People screaming and burning. Men, women and children. He didn't know if it was kind of wound imprinted on the land or just the bleeding effect kicking in, but for a moment he felt sure he could smell burning hair. His stomach twisted and he shut off his eagle vision as fast as he could.

 _What's wrong?_  he heard Clay ask.

"You didn't see it?"

_I saw you donning your psychic specs, and then all of a sudden you started freaking out._

It must have been the bleeding effect, then. Clay had access to all five senses and even the sixth sense of eagle vision, but it seemed that he was free from Desmond's hallucinations. Perhaps in having gone through madness and out the other side, he had discovered freedom from the bleeding effect, or perhaps the visions were imprinted in Desmond's gene structure instead of inside his brain. Either way, he was in no hurry to investigate them any further.

"Desmond, over here!" he heard his father call. He arranged his facial expression into one that he hoped resembled normality and jogged over to the van. His father was inspecting the base of one of the wind turbines. "Look at this."

Desmond peered at it. There was a barely-visible indent there: a symbol similar to those he had seen used by The First Civilisation. With some trepidation, he opened up his eagle vision and the symbol glowed so bright that it seemed to engulf his brain like a wave. Quickly, he blinked the vision away.

"That's impossible," he exclaimed. "How could that have got there? The whole face of the planet has changed since The First Civilisation got wiped out. How can this be here?"

"I'll tell you how," Rebecca said grimly. She was crouched on the other side of the wind turbine and gestured for them to gather around her. They both did, and William breathed in sharply just as Desmond let out a groan.

The turbine had another stamp. It said  _Abstergo Industries_.

"We need to get out of here," William said in a clipped voice.

"You read my mind," Rebecca agreed, standing up and running over to the van. "Desmond let's  _go_."

Desmond found himself shaking with anger, unable to tear his eyes away from that nasty little marking. Somewhere inside him, he thought he felt a smaller fire of rage burning, and he knew that it was Clay. In the end, the other two practically had to drag him away from the base of the turbine, and he was swearing under his breath every step of the way.

* * *

Rebecca had suggested that it might just be a coincidence, since Abstergo did seem to own half of the economy of the Western world, but her optimism was shot down quickly by the others. Somehow the Templars had got there before them, and without returning it would be impossible to figure out the true function of those wind turbines. Returning, however, was far from a safe option

That night, Desmond tossed and turned in his bed. It was too hot to sleep, or perhaps he was just too frustrated. They had come all this way just the realise that they'd arrived in second place, and for all they knew that hill could have had Abstergo security cameras all over it.

As if that wasn't enough, he had a dead guy in his head. Clay hadn't said anything since they'd seen the Abstergo stamp, but Desmond was sure that the mind inside his was very busy.

"Can't they afford goddamned air conditioning for this place?" Desmond growled under his breath. He kicked off the covers and pulled his T-shirt off in one violent move. Standing up, he crossed over the window and opened it, finally relaxing a little as the night air rolled in and cooled the sweat on his torso.

 _Do you mind if I make an observation?_  Clay drawled, sounding completely at ease. This only annoyed Desmond further.

"Like I could stop you," he muttered.

_I think this whole Abstergo revelation has made you a little tense..._

"Yeah? Did you work that out all by yourself, Dr Phil?"

_... But I think it's that hard-on that's got you really wound up._

Desmond slammed the window shut with greater force than was really necessary and threw himself back onto his bed, flushing in equal measures of anger and humiliation. He had hoped that if he kept his line of sight in check, Clay wouldn't notice. "I'm going to sleep now," he said shortly.

_You know what'll really help you get to sleep..._

"What do I have to do to get you to shut up?

_Desmond, you told me you would let me stay in you for as long as it took for me to find a new body, or to figure something else out. You're already making enough of a sacrifice, and I can't stand the thought of you torturing yourself because of me._

"I am not torturing myself."

_Yes, you are! And do you know how I know? Because I'm right in here with you!_

Clay's voice had broken slightly on that last sentence, and Desmond heard the underlying strain in his voice. He was taken aback. He knew how hard this period of self-imposed abstinence had been on himself, but it had never occurred to him that Clay could feel it too. The man was right, though. He felt like there was lightning trapped beneath his skin, slowly building the more he held back, steadfastedly resistant to any other attempts at quelling it.

_Look, I'm not saying you need to go out and ... find a dancing partner. Just ... take care of yourself. I'll be quiet as a churchmouse. In fact, I know some meditation exercises that should be able to shut me off from you, give you a little ... privacy._

"Thanks."

_While you jerk off._

"That's not helping."

_Spank the monkey?_

"Seriously, would you..."

_Tease the weasel?_

"OK, you just made that one up."

 _It got you in the mood, though, didn't it?_  Clay teased.

Desmond was 99 per cent sure that Subject Sixteen was bullshitting him about this "meditation" crap, but at this point he would take a mutual pact of silence in place of genuine privacy. "Quiet as a churchmouse?" he repeatedly suspiciously.

_I've got a great one about a churchmouse as well._

"Keep it to yourself." He heard a rough, gleeful laugh that faded away slowly. "Clay?"

No reply.

Desmond sighed. His better judgement was yelling at him not to do what he was about to do, but his better judgement was being drowned out by a much louder and more insistent demand. After biting his lip and feigning indecision for a second or longer, he gave in and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down his thighs and then sitting up a little to finish guiding them off his legs altogether. Afterwards he laid back and just bathed for a moment in the pleasantness of the air against his bare skin, in the low thrill he felt at the simplicity of nudity. Desmond had been naked before with Sixteen in his brain - of course he had - but up until now it had been an uncomfortable and inconvenient interim stage required in washing and dressing. Now he found the lack of clothes - the openness of being in this state without any sense of humiliation or shame - incredibly liberating.

He could only appreciate it for so long, however, before the more urgent matter got the best of him. Desmond closed his eyes and rested a hand on his chest, slowly sliding it down over his torso, his stomach, his lower abdomen - savouring the friction before finally curling the flat palm into a fist, gripping himself gently, then tighter. Immediately the last of his reservations fled, chased away by the fact of how overwhelming _good_ it felt to do this. He released a low-pitched, grateful moan, and then got to work.


	6. Getting Out

Desmond cursed as the all-purpose no-brand soap found its way into his eyes, and tried hard to blink it away as he rinsed off his hair under the hot jet of water. Unlike the rest of the safehouse, which had clearly been a place of some opulence in the past, the bathrooms must have been built when the Assassins moved in. They were communal areas with rows of showerheads at one end and urinals at the other, and if you positioned yourself in a certain way you could probably take a shower and take a piss at the same time. It was a mercy that the showers had temperature controls at all. Desmond suspected that the Assassin leaders had only built separate male and female bathrooms begrudgingly - they believed in a hard life. 

_Man, you shouldn't rush this._  Sixteen, who had begun initiating conversations a lot more frequently since Desmond had voluntarily offered his body up as temporary shelter, sounded fully blissed-out and his censure came in a lazy, relaxed drawl. _I'd forgotten just how good hot showers feel._

"Yeah, well I'm sorry I can't spend half an hour letting you savour the experience but I've got things to do," Desmond replied, raising his voice a little to be heard over the running water, although he suspected that Clay would still be able to hear him even if he whispered. "So, how was your meditation," he asked brusquely.

_What meditation?_

Desmond smiled humourlessly. "Last night, you said you were able to isolate your mind from mine by meditating. Is that true?"

_I dunno._

"You don't know?"

_I've never tried._  This time Desmond heard a definite grin in Clay's voice and he felt his face heat up for reasons completely unrelated to the water. Admittedly he'd already guessed that Clay had been fully of aware of what was going on last night, but this was definitely a situation in which feigned ignorance would have been bliss.

"You son of a bitch."

_Come on, if you had a choice between picturing a calm ocean and experiencing an orgasm for the first time in four years, which would you choose?_

Desmond was unable to come up with a retort to do that justice, so instead he grabbed the dial in front of him and switched the water temperature to freezing cold. He bit his tongue and listened to Clay's yelp of shock with vindictive pleasure. "How's this 'experience' for you?

_Fine, I'm sorry I lied to you._ To Desmond's surprise, Clay actually sounded sincerely admonished. _But could you turn off the water? You're sort of cutting off your nose to spite your face._

"Whatever you say."

Desmond reached over to flick the shower off when a voice behind him sent his heart flying into his mouth and nearly made him jump out of his skin.

"May I ask who you think you're talking to, Desmond?" Shaun queried loudly. He was standing over by the urinals with his arms folded, and was wearing a stern expression that was only slightly betrayed by the fact that he was visibly shaking with anger.

"Jesus  _fucking_  CHRIST, Shaun, you scared the  _shit_  out of me!" Desmond yelled, grabbing at his chest in an attempt to massage his heart into beating at a normal rate again. He leaned against the slippery tiles of the bathroom wall for support.

"Allow me to posit a theory."

"Allow you to  _what_?"

Shaun rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath. Then he went on, "It's not the first time I've heard you apparently talking to yourself, and the others have heard you too. Now other people might just assume that your tiny brain has finally given up the ghost and you're talking to the fairies, but I know a great deal about espionage kits, which means that I'm familiar with the technology of communication devices small enough to be disguised as a tooth filling."

"Shaun, what the hell are you talking about? I was just..." But Desmond couldn't think of anything to say. If only he'd been singing instead of talking, it might have been easier to talk his way out of this. Some dim part of him was aware that the easiest way out of this situation would be to tell the truth, but it was outweighed by an instinctive need to protect Clay, to hide his presence from the potential threat of Assassin interference, and so Desmond said nothing.

Seeming to take the silence as some kind of affirmation, Shaun took a step forward, his eyes blazing. "I don't think that Abstergo really kidnapped you. I think you went to them voluntarily, and you're still working with them. How did they find us back at the warehouse? Why are we here now, looking for some temple that just _happens_ to be located beneath an Abstergo wind farm? _I_ think you've been communicating with Vidic ever since you and Lucy left Abstergo."

The mention of Lucy's name for the first time since the Colosseum was enough to turn Desmond's stomach. "This is ridiculous..." he began.

But Shaun was on a roll now, and he took another step closer, now uncomfortably close to Desmond, spitting the words out with indignant fury. "Yes, Lucy, whom you  _murdered_. It's so perfect, isn't it? You can tell us it was all because of a voice in your head, but for Abstergo it's just another obstacle out of their way!"

It never happened like that again, not so unconsciously and reflexively. Later, Desmond decided that it must have been a combination of his own desire to be anywhere but where he was, standing naked in a bathroom listening to Shaun scream accusations in his face, and of Clay's desire to have control of a pair of fists. Whatever the reason, he suddenly found himself grabbing Shaun by the throat and pushing him backwards at a violent speed towards the nearest wall. Shaun staggered with the force of the motion and tripped so that his shoulders slammed into the tiles first. Clay then pressed Desmond's body closer to give him the maximum amount of leverage, and pushed Shaun up the wall by his throat until he was standing on his toes and eye-to-eye with the vengeful glare of the other man.

Desmond's mouth moved, but it was Subject Sixteen's slow, measured tones that came out: a vindictive sneer with an edge of joy at finally being in control of a physical body again.

"You listen to me, you skinny English  _fuck_ ," he hissed, Desmond's mouth barely centimetres from Shaun's ear. "Lucy Stillman was ten times the Assassin you are. You're nothing but a pathetic wannabe. If I hear you say her name again I'll give you a taste of what a  _real_  Assassin does best." He used Desmond's hand to squeeze Shaun's throat a little tighter, to punctuate his point. Shaun looked terrified; Desmond was usually too laidback to resemble anything like an intimidating presence, but his unashamed nakedness and intense rage gave him a malevolent aura as he effortlessly held the smaller man in place, speaking in that strange voice.

Finally breaking away from his state of shock, Desmond wrestled control of his body back from Clay and released his grip on Shaun's throat. The two men both staggered apart, neither of them daring to break eye contact.

"Get out," Desmond breathed.

Shaun fled.

 


	7. Saving Someone

Desmond turned off the still-cold shower jet, leaned back against the cold tiles, and sank slowly to the floor, resting his forearms on his knees and bowing his head, trying to get his breathing under control. He didn't know whether he was angrier at Clay or at Shaun. All he knew was that having the truth of what he had done to Lucy stated so brutally, out loud, had shaken him to his core. He struggled to keep the memories at bay but the Colosseum reared up around him, and her blood flowed over his fingers once more, her face so close to his and full of shock, sadness, betrayal and fear, her eyes so wide. The memory was cruelly vivid, as though it were happening all over again.

 _That guy is an asshole_ , Subject Sixteen said, but cautiously. Desmond recognised the statement as a way of testing the waters, and didn't respond. 

The attack had taken him off-guard. Suddenly he couldn't remember how he had ever managed to relax with Subject Sixteen present in his head. He knew the guy was unhinged and violent, permanently damaged by the endless slaying in the Animus. But with all the wisecracks, the singing, and Sixteen's invention of this good-guy martyr character, Desmond had somehow been lured into treating this whole thing like a game.

What if he hadn't been able to regain control in time? What if Subject Sixteen had  _killed_  Shaun right there in the showers, with Desmond once again left powerless to stop the murderous actions of his own body?

 _I was just trying to shake him up_ , Subject Sixteen said, as if he could read Desmond's mind. Hell, maybe he could. It wouldn't be the only thing he'd lied about. _What he said about you and Lucy ... that was wrong, Desmond. He had it coming._

Desmond said nothing. He stood up and crossed to the other side of the room, where he had left his clothes. He pulled them on without bothering to towel off, and the leftover drops of water immediately soaked into the material and made it cling to his skin uncomfortably. No matter: the activity at least gave him something to do while he tried to figure out a plan. He remembered the expression on Shaun's face as he'd fled the room and realised that he may only have a limited time to fix what had just happened. Desmond doubted that Rebecca or Bill would buy Shaun's sleeper agent theory, since the man already had a reputation as a conspiracy theory nut, but Desmond attacking and threatening to kill him definitely wouldn't be written off as paranoia.

He hurried out of the showers and down the stairs to the ballroom, where he found the two other occupants of the safe house deep in a muttered conversation, their faces serious. Shaun wasn't around, but a ridge of panic shot its way up Desmond's spine as he saw the obvious concern in their expressions and wondered if he was too late. His fears were allayed a moment later when William looked over at his son, and seemed to relax a little.

"Everything alright, Desmond?"

No. No, everything was not alright. "Have you seen Shaun?" he asked. After the period of estrangement, he found it difficult not to call his father "William" or even "Mr Miles", so on the whole he just tried to avoid names as much as possible when addressing him.

William looked slightly annoyed at the mention of the historian's name; he still hadn't forgiven Shaun for forcing Desmond to use the Animus without his consent. "Probably in his room, why?"

"Uh, we had kind of a falling out. If he ... if he tells you about it he'll probably exaggerate, but I want to try and smooth things over. His room is...?"

"The top floor," William replied, looking at Desmond pensively.

"Thanks," Desmond said, leaving before any inquisition could begin.

* * *

Desmond had been standing outside Shaun's door for about five minutes, trying to formulate an explanation for what had happened. It wasn't going well, which might have had something to do with the fact that Subject Sixteen had been talking at him almost nonstop in an attempt to get a response.

_I know you can hear me, so stop with the silent treatment. Here's what you need to do: just go in there and lay one on him. A kiss, I mean. I guarantee his mood will improve. A guy doesn't sneak up on another guy and watch him showering unless there's something else going on._

This finally prompted a response from Desmond, who shook his head sadly. "No. He's just angry. He knows that Lucy liked me, and he thinks I used that to betray her. He's not right, but I can see why he hates me so much."

With this understanding in his arsenal, Desmond took a deep breath and finally knocked on the door. There was a long silence, and then he heard Shaun call out through the heavy wooden door. "Who is it?"

"It's me. Desmond."

For a while he thought that Shaun wasn't going to answer the door, but then it opened to reveal him standing there with a carefully arranged accusatory expression, tinged with only the thinnest outline of fear. "Sorry, Desmond, but I'm not really in the mood for a chat right now."

He tried to slam the door shut again, only failing when Desmond added yet another entry to his growing list of Stupidest Decisions Ever Made by slapping his hand against the doorframe. The door came crashing down on his knuckles and bounced off again. White hot pain exploded in his hand and he muffled a scream that tried to force its way out of his mouth. Inside his head, he heard Subject Sixteen yelp in agony.

The one redeeming factor of the move was that Shaun was now looking far less intimidated, though the downside was that he instead looked amused and scornfully pitying. Shaun really didn't seem to have any nice emotions. Desmond took the opportunity to gasp out, "I came here because I think owe you an explanation."

 _And a clean pair of shorts_ , Subject Sixteen added.

"Could I please come in? Just for a minute? It's not the kind of story that should be told in a hallway."

That seemed to pique Shaun's interest because he reluctantly stood aside. Desmond entered the room and shut the door with his remaining non-crippled hand. Without being invited he sat down heavily in a nearby armchair and took a few deep breaths to try and get the pain under control. "I don't suppose you have any Tylenol? My hand..."

"Well, I'm  _so_  very sorry about your hand, Desmond, but unfortunately I don't have any painkillers left. You see, I've had a bit of a sore throat lately."

Desmond realised that he wasn't going to be able to say anything without pissing Shaun off, at least until he got through his story. He had already decided that his only option was to tell the truth, since he wasn't creative enough to come up with any other kind of semi-believable explanation for his behaviour. Besides, Shaun was like a dog with a bone when it came to digging up the truth, so giving it to him straight was the fastest and most painless way to get through this. If he decided to tell the others about Sixteen ... well, Desmond would just have to deal with that. He was starting to think that maybe he _did_  need their help after all.

It took about fifteen minutes to give the abridged version of the story, and during that time Shaun's defences dropped away as he listened in fascination. By the time Desmond had finished speaking, the historian was sitting on his bed with one hand frozen in the process of running his fingers through his hair, and his mouth was was hanging slightly open. Desmond's fingers had swollen up and were all developing a nasty purplish-red bruise.

"OK, so assuming I believe this ... preposterous story, and I'm definitely not saying I do..."

"I can prove it," Desmond interrupted, at the same time wondering exactly how he could prove it.

"Exactly how can you prove it?" Shaun asked. He still sounded sceptical, but Desmond could tell he was intrigued.

"You could ask me something that Subject Sixteen would know, but I wouldn't."

"Good idea. What's three times seven?"

"Ha-ha."

"Fine. How about the date the Magna Carta was signed. And I don't mean just a ballpark guess, Desmond. Subject Sixteen relived the memories of an ancestor who lived during that period so he should know this one."

_Actually my ancestor was in Naples at that time, but luckily for you I paid attention in history class. It's..._

"June 15th, 1215," Desmond repeated as Subject Sixteen fed the date to him. Shaun cocked an eyebrow, looking mildly impressed.

The historian stood up and paced back and forth a couple of times, which didn't work well because it was quite a small room. "One thing I don't understand," he said pensively. "You've been back in the Animus since then, so surely your consciousness would have been separated from his when that happened. Why weren't you able to leave him behind in the machine when you returned?"

Desmond opened his mouth and then closed it again, unsure of how to explain it in any way that would make sense to Shaun. In the end he didn't even need to say it. The man stared at him, and his eyes widened as the realisation dawned on him. "Wait a minute. Did you  _invite_  him back in?"

"Uh..."

"For God's sake, Desmond,  _why_? Is he paying you rent or something? I can't imagine that your brain has a very high property value!"

"I want to find a way to help him!" Desmond retorted defensively.

" _Help_  him?" Shaun stared at him as if he'd gone mad. "Desmond, he's  _dead!_ "

"Woah, take it easy. He can hear you."

"And he's a psychopath," Shaun continued, deliberately speaking louder. "You want us to help a dead psychopath?"

"I never  _asked_  for your help!"

"Are you sure? Because I don't mind driving you down to New York City to find a really good exorcist."

"He's not a ghost, I keep telling you..."

"Oh learn to take a joke, Desmond. I can be a merry little soul sometimes." At least Shaun was back in his element now, since Desmond had reassured him that Subject Sixteen couldn't assert any control unless his host relinquished it first. "This is easy to fix. We'll put you back in the Animus, and as soon as he's been extracted we'll pull you back out. Then Rebecca can find a way to delete him."

"No!" Desmond said sharply. "That's not happening. I told him I'd help him, I'm not just going to  _kill_  him."

"But he's already..."

"I said no!"

"Desmond, he's out of control, he's insane! You saw what he did to me just now, God knows what will happen if he regains a physical body."

 _Now he's pretending like he didn't enjoy it_ , Subject Sixteen muttered confidentially. _I'm telling you, Desmond, getting up close and personal with a naked wet dude was the high point of this guy's year._

Desmond struggled to keep his expression neutral, but Shaun's shrewd eyes noticed the sudden loss of focus in Desmond's face. "He's talking to you right now, isn't he? What's he saying."

"He ... wanted me to apologise to you. On his behalf."

Shaun and Sixteen gave almost perfectly synchronised laughs of disbelief with a symmetry that Desmond found a little disturbing. "Why do I not believe you?" Shaun said, but at least he was now a lot more relaxed than when Desmond had first shown up at his door. In fact, he was looking at Desmond with something so strange and alien to his face that it took the Assassin a moment to realise that Shaun was looking at him with respect for the first time since they'd met.

"You really want to help him?"

"Yes. Without him I wouldn't be here. Besides, I can't just leave him stuck like this - a mind without a body. It's worse than being a ghost. There's got to be something I can do for him. I have to ... save somebody."

He didn't say Lucy's name. He didn't need to. For the first time since Desmond had met him, Shaun's expression actually softened a little, sadness blossoming where there was usually sarcasm and spite. It occurred to Desmond that Lucy must have been one of the few true friends that Shaun would have had after joining the Assassins. It was a lonely job that often caused a divide between new recruits and their former friends and family, one of the side effects of being forced to live a life of secrecy. Shaun had only joined the Assassins a year ago, was still new to all of this really, and Desmond knew that Lucy would have taken him under her wing and helped him through the difficult transition. That was what Lucy did.

"OK," Shaun said at last. "Let's save somebody."


	8. Eden

Desmond was sitting eating his morning cereal when Rebecca came in, beaming and smelling like the cold morning air. Desmond paused with the spoon halfway up to his mouth and his mouth open, staring at her. The woman was wearing a many-pocketed beige waistcoat under a green anorak, along with some very slack combat trousers and enormously oversized hiking boots. She looked very pleased with herself.

"Hi, Rebecca," Desmond said, unsure of how else to comment.

"Morning, Desmond. You're going to love me," she announced happily.

Desmond looked at her outfit again. "How could I not?"

She laughed merrily and pulled off her anorak. "It's a disguise, Desmond. I went walking over to the wind farm, dressed as a hiker. Upstate New York is full of people dressed like this, trust me. I did a sweep for any kind of electrical devices, mines, hidden pressure pads, security cameras, things like that. The whole place is clean, Desmond - Abstergo aren't watching it."

Desmond put his spoon down and pushed his bowl of cereal away, having suddenly lost his appetite. "You went up there alone?" he repeated. "Rebecca, do you have any idea how dangerous that was?"

"Actually, yes. I now know that it wasn't dangerous at all. So, you remember the one thing we haven't tried?"

Desmond knew immediately what she was talking about. They had discussed returning to the hill with the Apple of Eden that was in their possession, since it had glowed when they first arrived there. But ever since realising that the Templars had been there before them, it had been generally agreed that taking the Apple up there was too much of a risk.

Shaun had insisted that the Apple had to be the key to opening the temple, and Desmond was inclined to agree. On the few occasions when he'd help the Apple in his hand, he'd had a sense that he was suddenly part of something much bigger than himself, a surety of purpose that came without real understanding. But he had refused to touch the thing ever since it had taken control of his body and forced him to kill Lucy.

Rebecca looked at him sadly, obviously guessing what he was thinking. "We're prepared this time, Des," she said softly. "We'll monitor you at all times, and at any sign of trouble we'll..."

"OK, you're right. Just ... can we not go up there right away?" She opened her mouth and he held up a hand. "I know, I know, time's running out. Just let me spend some time with the Apple first, let me get a feel for it. I don't want to go stumbling in there blind."

* * *

Desmond sat cross-legged on his bed with the Apple in front of him. He had managed to tip it out of its case without touching its surface, and was now preparing himself to make contact for the first time since the Colosseum.

"Do you remember what it felt like when Ezio touched it?" he asked aloud.

 _Like being all-powerful and utterly weak at the same time_ , Clay replied promptly. He sounded distant and hypnotised.

Since the incident with Shaun had been resolved, Desmond had grown slightly less afraid of Clay's presence inside him. At the time, he'd wanted to write the man off as the crazed, dangerous lunatic he had first come to know in the Animus, but he had realised that things were never that simple. Now he was willing to speak with the other man again, albeit with caution.

Desmond took a deep breath and picked up the Apple. For a moment nothing happened, and then he felt the warmth starting in his hand and spreading out to fill his entire body, felt the overwhelming sensations as the power of the ancient technology washed over him. All-powerful, and utterly weak. Gritting his teeth, he remembered his plan and exercised his will upon the Apple.

It was like throwing pebbles in a river to stop it from flowing, but even a pebble can at least make ripples. He felt the power of the Apple radiate outwards, and then there was a snap like the sound of someone taking a photo.

"What the..."

Desmond looked up. Clay Kaczmarek was standing in front of him, physically present, still wearing the same blue T-shirt and brown jacket he'd been wearing in the Animus. He looked down at his hands in shock, then up at Desmond, who found himself standing up and moving closer to Clay, curious to examine this strange and solid vision.

Clay had left an unanswered query hanging in the air, but Desmond struggled to speak. The Apple weighed heavy in his hand, a distraction. "I saw Al Mualim do something like this in one of Altair's memories," he explained. "He held the Apple and used it to create multiple versions of himself to fight Altaïr. They ... they were real, tangible, at least for a short while."

Clay stared at him, and then spoke with the smallest glimmer of hope. "Do you think ... Those Came Before ... could they do this permanently? Create physical bodies?"

"I think so," Desmond gasped, now buckling under the strain of holding onto the Apple. "We think they created the First Civilisation. Maybe ... the answer to helping you ... is in that temple."

Clay stared at him, and it was strange to finally feel his gaze after all this time experiencing him as nothing more than a voice. Then he took another step closer to Desmond and reached out a hand to touch the surface of the Apple. He shuddered with a kind of frightened ecstasy, then moved his fingers so that they were touching Desmond's wrist instead, then his arm.

"Do you know what I miss most about being alive?" he asked in a hushed voice one that nonetheless sounded very loud and crystal clear when he was as close as this. He raised his head and locked eyes with Desmond, whose normally brown irises were glowing gold.

"I can guess," Desmond replied, his voice sounding like an echo to his own ears. His body felt like it was on fire. He didn't know if it was a pleasurable or a painful sensation, only that it was overwhelming.

Then Clay's mouth was on his, and Desmond felt a sudden and insatiable hunger flare up inside of him, somewhere near his centre of gravity, his sacrum, his stomach. With his free hand, he grabbed a fistful of Clay's shirt and dragged him backwards, pulling them both down onto the bed in a heavy, hurried, graceless tumble. He was amazed by the solidity of Clay's body - amazed by the weight of him, the texture of his hair and clothes, the roughness of his lips and the sharp edges of his teeth as he kissed his way down Desmond's throat until he found that sweet spot just above the collarbone and bit down, right where Desmond's pulse was throbbing and aching to be soothed.

If this was an illusion, it was a powerful one.

Clay's body was now flush against his, and Desmond could hear the raw, needy whistle of breath through Clay's nose as he held Desmond's neck in his teeth and dragged a hand down his ribcage. Strong, clever fingers and an unyielding palm grazed over Desmond's hipbone and changed direction, tracing the hard line of his belt as if teetering there, like a man on a cliff's edge, afraid to let himself fall. Desmond clutched the Apple in a death grip, trying to dig out his mind from underneath the sea of sensations he was drowning in, trying to fight the insidious impulse to simply let go and lose himself in this.

He hadn't yet lost the battle when [Clay lifted his mouth from Desmond's throat and pressed it hard to his lips, pushing a hand into his hair](http://mikulance382.deviantart.com/gallery/?offset=48#/d4o2peq). Desmond felt Clay's other hand slide down until it was stroking him through his jeans, and the sudden flare of panic gave him the strength to release his grip on the Apple and throw it across the room.

Clay's physical body vanished immediately and Desmond was left alone, gasping for breath, and more aroused than he'd ever been in his life. When he was able to speak again, the only thing he could think of was to ask, "What the  _hell_  just happened?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork for this chapter is ['Make Me Feel Again'](http://mikulance382.deviantart.com/gallery/?offset=48#/d4o2peq) by the very talented Mikulance382.


	9. Eye-To-Eye

_Desmond?_

"What the hell was that all about?" Desmond growled, his anger lit up by frustration as he realised that he regretted letting go of the Apple, that he wanted to pick it up again.

 _I have no idea,_  Clay replied frankly.  _You picked up the Apple, it glowed for a second, and the next thing I knew you were lying down on the bed and..._

"And what?"

_Well, let's just say that I wish you hadn't dropped the Apple so quickly._

Desmond shook his head, trying to filter out some kind of coherent thought from the slow current of arousal pounding beneath his skin. "You kissed me," he said, trying and failing to keep the accusing tone out of his voice.

 _I did what?_ Clay sounded genuinely taken aback, though not disgusted.

"You appeared in front of me, in a physical body, and you kissed me."

Clay didn't respond to this for a long time, and Desmond felt his anger growing. He was trying as hard as he could to pin the blame on Clay, but he couldn't deny how good it had felt to be touched like that, to collide with a body in that way and be consumed by the urge to just let everything go. He wished he could blame it all on the current dearth of sex in his life, but he knew that wasn't the only reason.

You might call it a fascination. When Desmond had first encountered Clay - Subject Sixteen - it had been in the form of a puzzle, something curious that needed to be opened up, rearranged, slotted back together. He had invested his will and energy into picking apart and solving the clues left behind for him, and born from that had been a deep-seated desire to know more about the man who had created them, a shadowy figure that Desmond had chased through the centuries of his ancestor's memories. Clay had always seemed to be just a little bit too far away, an entity grazing against outstretched fingertips. Then, when the chase had ended with Lucy lying dead and Desmond's mind broken apart, Clay had found him. This solid presence, this guide, this anchor in the terrifying sea of the Animus, had probably saved Desmond from losing himself altogether.

So. A fascination, yes. But an intellectual interest wasn't enough to explain why Desmond had just dragged Clay into a bed and started devouring his mouth feverishly, pushing himself into the contact and readying himself for a total physical surrender. This hadn't been anything like the loss of control at the Colosseum; this time, Desmond had known what he wanted and pursued it, if only for a scant handful of seconds, without inhibition. It was crazy, and totally unprecedented. Desmond had never even kissed another man before. It seemed that he still hadn't.

 _We already knew that the Apple is good at creating illusions._  Clay said finally, his words careful and measured, as though he was cautious of scaring Desmond even more. _It must have been some kind of hyper-realistic fantasy..._

"It wasn't  _my_ fantasy!" Desmond snapped, a little too sharply.

_Then maybe it was mine._

If there was a proper way to respond to that, then Desmond wasn't aware of it. He sat on the edge of the bed for a few more seconds before standing up and saying, "I'm going to go take a shower."

He didn't need to specify that it would be cold.

* * *

"Desmond Miles, if you truly are the Chosen One to save us all from burning horrible death, I fear I may have to start atoning for my sins and slapping on the sun lotion now."

Desmond glared at Shaun from across the table. The small crew had just finished eating, but Desmond had caught hold of Shaun's arm as the historian made to leave and had asked for a 'talk'. Rebecca and William still didn't know about Clay, and since Desmond would prefer the situation to remain that way he had unconsciously elected Shaun as his one-man brain trust.

"I don't see why you're so sceptical."

"I'm a historian, Desmond, and therefore the Michaelangelo of scepticism. Remember, nothing is true..." he began in a sarcastic sing-song voice.

"How did the First Civilisation come into existence if they weren't created by Those Who Came Before?" Desmond persisted.

"Well if I had to guess, I'd say they evolved from First Civilisation monkeys, who in turn evolved from First Civilisation single-celled organisms." It was hard to tell if Shaun genuinely thought Desmond's theory was idiotic, or if he just enjoyed making shooting down anything that Desmond had to say. "Might I suggest that you only believe in this theory so much because you want it to be true? You probably love the idea of yourself as some kind of life-giving god figure."

Desmond had told him his idea, about using whatever technology they found in the temple to create a new body for Clay. Up until this point he had always been sure that he wanted it for selfless reasons, to repay the debt he owed and to give back the life that had been stripped away prematurely by Abstergo and the Animus. Now he wondered whether what he really wanted was just to feel Clay's hands on his skin once more, to finish what they had started - what Desmond had started - in his quarters. Or perhaps it would just make things easier if the  _man_  he was trying to control his sexual desire for was at least alive and not just a voice in his head.

Shaun took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if trying to deal with Desmond was giving him motion sickness. "Alright, alright. So you say that Subject Sixteen's consciousness still exists on some level. How much of him is there? Memories? Personality traits? Favourite ice cream flavours?"

Desmond decided that enough was enough. Trying as hard as he could to mentally communicate his intent to Clay, he pried his mind away from the controls of his body.

Shaun sat up straighter in alarm as Desmond's body suddenly shifted in a manner that was supremely creepy. The young Assassin closed his eyes, and when he opened them the historian was struck with a very real and unsettling sense that he was no longer looking at the same man.

"Pistachio," Desmond said, in a voice that turned Shaun's stomach with the memories it recalled.

"I ... I beg your pardon?"

"My favourite ice cream, flavour. What's yours,  _mate_?" Desmond gave a grin that Shaun had never seen before, that was nothing like his usual lop-sided smile. This was hard, reptilian, and predatory, more like a wolf baring its teeth than a gesture of friendliness.

"Sixteen,"Shaun concluded in a murmur, reluctantly giving in to the evidence of his eyes and ears.

"In ... well. In _someone's_ flesh. I think Desmond wanted to give you the opportunity to test me. See what level I still exist on. What do  _you_  think, Shaun? Am I still all there?"

Shaun worked hard to regain his usual bored, unimpressed demeanour. "It seems that way. If anything, there's too much of you left."

Subject Sixteen laughed, and though he used Desmond's mouth to do it it wasn't Desmond's laugh that came out. This was lower, and sharper, like a dog's bark. "Oh, Shaun. I get the feeling you don't like me."

Now it was easy to hide his fear, since it was being consumed by annoyance. "What do you care what I think? I'm just a 'skinny English fuck'."

Shaun didn't like swearing and tried to avoid it wherever possible, so even repeating Sixteen's words was difficult. The other man seemed to pick up on this, because he leaned in a little closer so that they were eye-to-eye and spoke in that same low, husky, deliberate drawl, "Maybe I like a nice English fuck."

Shaun found himself unable to break eye contact with this strange not-Desmond figure, and so he began to buckle under the pressure of that intense, cold, brown-eyed gaze. "Desmond?" he called out, offering up a swift thanks when his voice didn't break.

Sixteen pulled away and casually leaned Desmond's body back into his chair. "He's taking a break, Shaun. Maybe he thinks that you and I need to talk."

Shaun stood up from the table. "You know, I don't think we do. I think I should just go and tell William about this, and let him deal with Desmond and you and any other bloody spooks our intrepid hero decides to roll out the welcome wagon for."

He turned to leave, but Sixteen quickly came around the table and stood directly in front of him, blocking his path, speaking urgently. "Desmond doesn't want you to tell them, he's  _begging_  you not to."

"Get away from me."

Sixteen did the opposite, moving Desmond's body closer and forcing Shaun to take a step back towards the table. "What is your  _problem_ , Shaun?"

"My problem, mate, is that you're nothing but a distraction keeping Desmond from doing what he needs to do, and what he needs to do is prevent the end of life as we know it." He paused, and then added, "Also, you're a bit of a dickhead."

Sixteen smirked using Desmond's mouth. "So it has nothing to do with the fact that I'm all bound up with Desmond in ways that you'll never be. I sleep when he sleeps, move when he moves..." He took another step forward, and this time Shaun found himself with no more room left to back up, so he stood his ground stubbornly instead, even as Sixteen leaned over and whispered in his ear. "...And when he jerks off, I come when he comes. _Just a minute_!" he yelled suddenly, and Shaun saw that he had his eyes closed and realised that he Desmond must be trying to take back control of his body.

The historian desperately tried to work some saliva back into his mouth so that he could speak again. "I assure you, none of that interests me," he replied coolly, trying to ignore the fact that Desmond's body was close enough for him to count the hairs on his jawline. "I just can't take his unsufferable whining, not even when it's  _your_ insufferable whining. As far as I'm concerned, you can stay dead."

"I know how to get inside that temple."

That made Shaun stop and listen, if only for a moment before his critical faculties kicked in. "You're lying."

"I'm not. I've spent more time in the Animus than any other living person, and I've lived the lives of countless Assassins with high concentrations of First Civilisation blood. I was with Desmond when Jupiter showed him what we need to do, and when Desmond first woke up from the Animus, I was the one who spoke and said I knew what we needed to do." He was no longer pressed up against Shaun so tightly, but was instead looking him in the face with an expression of transparent honesty.

"Why should I believe any of this?"

"Let's go get the Apple. I'll take you up to that hill. And I'll show you."


	10. Trust

"Rebecca! Rebecca! Oh, for goodness' sake, the woman is _constantly_ in my face when I'm trying to work and the very second I actually need her..." Shaun stopped speaking as he saw Desmond - who by his gait was clearly still being controlled by Subject Sixteen - stroll out of the Animus room with the Apple of Eden. He casually threw it up in the air before stuffing it into the pocket of his hoody.

"Let's go, Penfold, time's a-wasting."

Unsure of what to launch into a tirade about first, Shaun opened and closed his mouth a few times before he managed to speak. "Penfold?"

"The little hamster with glasses from 'Danger Mouse'."

"I  _know_ who Penfold is!" Shaun snapped. "And I've managed to get this far in life without a nickname, thank you very much. We have to wait for the rest of the team before we can..."

"We're not waiting for the rest of the team. I said I would show  _you_  how to get into the temple, not anyone else, and I'm only showing you because we might need to pick your brains when we get in there." He zipped up Desmond's hoody. "Also, because you're not an Assassin."

"I most certainly..."

"You're not. You might ride along with them but you weren't brainwashed from birth like they were, and you're smart enough not to buy into their bullshit creed that includes a blanket justification for murder."

Shaun didn't quite know how to react to this; he had always assumed that Subject Sixteen must be as deeply entrenched in the brotherhood as it was possible to be. He didn't know if he was more shocked by the fact that Sixteen had just openly condemned their beliefs, or by the fact that he may have just been paid a compliment.

While he was thinking, he saw Desmond's body do that creepy shifting movement again. The Assassin stood very still for a few seconds with his eyes closed, and when he opened them again it was most definitely Desmond looking back at him.

"Let's just do what he says, Shaun," he said, sounding glad to be back in control of his own mouth. "We can fill Rebecca and my dad in when we get back."

"This is not a good idea," Shaun stated grumpily, quietly disgusted with himself for being relieved to have Desmond back.

Desmond grinned and begin walking briskly down the corridor towards the front door of the safehouse. Along the way he threw his arm around Shaun's shoulders and all but dragged him along. "Come on,  _Penfold_ , let's go find some kick-ass life-giving god powers."

* * *

They'd been on the road, with Shaun in the driver's seat, for about ten minutes. Desmond was staring thoughtfully out of the window at the pleasant New York countryside. It was easy to take it all in, because it was going past very slowly.

"Hey, Shaun. Have they heard of a little something called the gas pedal in England?"

"It's called an accelerator, Desmond, and I prefer to use it rather than abuse it. Let's try to get there in one piece." There was a moment of cold silence and then he added, out of the blue, "I do not  _fancy_ you, Desmond, no matter what you're been telling your little friend."

"I never told him-"

"By no stretch of the imagination am I jealous of whatever it is the two of you have going on. He is absolutely welcome to you. And I hope you're listening to this!" He added the last part loudly, as if Clay was partially deaf.

"There is nothing going on between us!" Desmond snapped, a little too fiercely. He was even more angered when he heard Clay give a low chuckle in his head. This entire situation seemed to be spinning along and taking him for the ride, and he was still reeling from the fact that Clay had been keeping this secret from him until now. The last thing he needed was Shaun being convinced that he was in some kind of weird relationship with a voice in his head.

There were a few blessed moments of silence before Shaun quietly said, "So you really...?"

"Shaun, I am  _not_  going to talk about this, especially not to you."

"With him right there in your head? _Watching?_ "

"He said he was meditating!"

"Meditating? And you believed him?" Shaun considered this for a few minutes, and then he started laughing, quietly at first but eventually laughing harder and harder until he had tears in his eyes and Desmond started worrying that they were about to lose control of the van. It was only this fear that kept him from reaching over and throttling Shaun just to shut him up.

"Oh, Desmond, you are a  _plank_. You realise that he effectively tricked you into giving him a handjob, right?"

Desmond realised that Clay was also laughing at him, and he flushed in anger. He was starting to feel bullied. "It was  _not_  a handjob, and I am  _not_ gay. Not for you and not for some ... dead guy living in the back of my head!"

Clay stopped laughing and Desmond immediately felt a twinge of guilt that he deliberately ignored. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the weight of the Apple in his pocket, and suddenly he wished he was back at the safehouse, holding it in his hand and feeling the warmth and weight of Clay's body against his, that hot breath on his throat and those incredible hands touching him. Not for the first time, he wished that he'd held on to the illusion a little bit longer, and he was glad that Clay was unable to read his thoughts.

* * *

They arrived at the hill shortly after, and Shaun left the van parked at the bottom in case whatever Clay did caused the entire hill to disappear or something. Desmond stood for a moment, staring at the Abstergo wind turbines with a definite feeling of unease. Then he sighed, closed his eyes and murmured, "I'm going to hand the reins over, Clay. Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

_Trust me._

"I guess I don't have a choice."

Shaun looked over uneasily as Desmond's body gave a small shudder and submitted to Clay's control. The man plucked the Apple out of his pocket and it immediately started glowing gently. Shaun heard the sharp intake of breath and realised just how uncomfortable he was with this whole situation.

"You have to hold my hand."

Shaun stared at him. "I wasn't told about this part of the plan."

Clay rolled Desmond's eyes. "Relax, Penfold, I'm not making a move on you. The Apple will function as a kind of teleport to take us into the laboratory. It's about 3 miles underground by now, remember?"

Shaun stared at the outstretched hand uneasily, but was suddenly distracted by a soft but dreadful noise from overhead. Three ropes landed nearby, trailing across the ground, and as he looked up he saw a black helicopter - the near-silent kind - with the Abstergo logo on the side, three Templar agents rapelling down. Their boots hit the ground heavily, and they immediately detached themselves from the ropes and pulled out heavy-looking pistols.

"Hand over the Apple," their ugly, heavyset leader demanded, holding out one hand. Then he decided he didn't want to wait and just pointed his gun directly at Shaun's forehead instead.

Clay reacted instantly. He darted over to Shaun's side and grabbed him around the waist. There was on odd sensation like being pulled in all directions at once, and Shaun felt sure he saw a bullet come within an inch of his eye before whispering out of existence altogether. Then, suddenly, they were not longer standing on the hill.

They were underneath it.


	11. Black And Gold

Shaun hadn't quite known what to expect from the underground cavern, but the freezing cold breeze that hit his face was somewhat of a surprise. He opened his eyes and found that he was lying flat on his stomach in a snow drift, of all things. He looked up a little and immediately panicked when he saw that he was lying on the very edge of a snow-covered mountain, with very unfriendly rocks glaring at him from a long way in the distance. If he'd rolled over before getting up, he would probably be dead already. Unless...

He stood up, very carefully, his shoes crunching in the snow, and stared out over the white expanse with terror rising in his chest. He remembered the gun, and the bullet.

"Oh my God," he realised aloud. "I'm dead."

"You think the afterlife looks like Alaska?" he heard a familiar, mocking voice ask from behind him. Shaun spun around (carefully) and saw Subject Sixteen - the real Subject Sixteen - standing behind him with his hands in his pockets, smirking. He was only wearing a thin jacket over a T-shirt and jeans, but didn't seem bothered by the temperature.

"Oh no," Shaun groaned. "You mean I have to spend the rest of eternity stuck in Purgatory with _you_?"

"We're not dead, Shaun." For a record second time in one day, Shaun was actually relieved to see Desmond, walking over to them and pulling his hood up to try and gain some protection from the cold. "We must be inside the Animus."

The three of them stood in a circle for a moment, taking in their surroundings, while Shaun tried to process this. A small part of him was suddenly very excited; he'd never actually been allowed to use the Animus, and though he was slightly disappointed not to find himself in the shoes of one of his ancestors, to be experiencing a virtual environment for the first time was fascinating. Then a thought struck him.

"Hang on a minute," he said. "How did all three of us get inside the Animus, when we weren't anywhere near it?"

"Our physical bodies -  _your_  physical bodies, anyway - must be inside the temple," Clay speculated. "Maybe this is how the Apple alleviates the shock of teleportation. You should be able to exit manually from here."

Desmond nodded, deciding that he couldn't come up with a better explanation. "OK," he said with a shrug. "No point waiting around. Come on."

He held his arms slightly open and walked towards Clay, ignoring Shaun's smirk. To his surprise, Clay shook his head and took a step backwards. "No, Desmond. I'm going to wait here and look around. This Animus is different from the ones that the Assassins and Abstergo use. I want to try and get a feel for it, see if there's any information hidden in here."

It sounded like a genuine reason, but there was an odd tone in Clay's voice and he wasn't making eye contact. Desmond suddenly felt a well of concern inside his chest and took another step closer.

"Hey," he said, and when Clay still didn't look him at him he gently used his hand to lift the man's chin so that they were eye to eye. "I'll come back for you."

Clay smiled at him, but his mouth remained turned down at the corners and his eyes were sad. "Sure. Good luck out there, Desmond. And ... thanks."

If Shaun hadn't been there, Desmond would have kicked all his fears aside, grabbed hold of Clay and dragged him back out of the Animus whether he liked it or not. He was almost shocked by how painful it was to step backwards and begin the process for returning to his body alone.  _But I'll come back for him before I leave_ , he reminded himself.  _There's no need to get all dramatic about this._

He closed his eyes and the next thing he knew he was opening them again, staring up at a black ceiling lined with glowing gold patterns. For a moment he wondered if he was still inside the Animus, inside those strange environments that appeared when Those Who Came Before spoke to him through Ezio in those recordings. Then he realised ... this must have been where those recordings were made.

He sat up. He had been lying down in an Animus, just as Clay had said, but there were hundreds of them, set out in a grid pattern. They were far more advanced than anything he had seen at Abstergo or with the Assassins.

And they were not empty.

Next to him, Shaun was lying perfectly still, breathing lightly, with a band of pure light stretched over his eyes. But all around him were others, dressed in strange clothes, all of them looking human but slightly too beautiful, too perfect.

They were the last remaining members of the First Civilisation. They were here in their hundreds, held in some kind of suspended animation that prevented them from withering away.

They were alive.

 


	12. The Human Side

Resisting the temptation to slap Shaun in the face until he woke up was probably one of the hardest things Desmond had ever accomplished in this life. He paced back and forth in front of the Animus for a good five minutes before the orange band of light over Shaun's eyes smoothly faded away and the bespectacled historian sat up.

"About friggin' time!" Desmond snapped. "What were you doing, building a snowman?"

"Well, I'm sorry that we can't all be as adept as you at using the Animus, Des-" Shaun stopped speaking abruptly as he finally took in their surroundings. "My God."

"I know, right! There's got to be hundreds of them here."

Shaun jumped down from the complex array of supports and rests that formed the Animus he had been lying on. He looked around the hall. "Not all of the Animi are occupied," he observed quietly.

"Just as well, or we might not have been able to get through," Desmond said, kneeling down to examine the face of the unconscious middle-aged woman in the Animus next to his.

"But look, there are dozens of them that are empty. Why wouldn't they try to give sanctuary to as many people as they could?"

"Maybe there weren't enough people left to fill them," Desmond murmured, the impact of that possibility hitting him with an almost physical blow and leaving him feeling slightly nauseous.

"Or maybe not all of them wanted to be saved," Shaun suggested. He was some way off now, having gone exploring through the softly lit grid of Animi, but Desmond heard him give a sudden gasp that echoed around the cavernous room. "Oh shit ... Desmond, look at this."

Desmond stood up and walked over to stand by Shaun's side. When he saw what the other man was looking at, he lifted a hand to his mouth.

There was a baby in the Animus, surely not more than a few weeks old. It had a tuft of dark hair on its head and delicate pale skin. Extra supports had been added to the machine to form a crib of sorts, but there was still that same orange band of light over the infant's eyes. The baby was only wearing a kind of diaper, and Desmond felt a sudden absurd worry that it might be cold, even though it had surely been in this state for many millennia.

"Where's its mother?" Desmond asked, not knowing what else to say.

Shaun looked around at the sea of prone bodies. "She could be any one of them. Or she could be dead."

Desmond reached out helplessly to the baby, and then withdrew his hand. He was doing everything in his power not to start crying, but the tragedy and beauty of this place was overwhelming. How was he supposed to help these people? He had no idea what he was doing. He wished Lucy was here, to take charge. He wished Clay was still in his head and giving him advice, however cryptic. He wanted his mom or dad to scold him and guide him as they had done countless times when he was growing up on the farm.

He didn't want it to come down to this. Idiot Desmond, coward Desmond the runaway, the deserter, the prodigal son, who had returned against his own will and was now holding the lives of all these people in his hands. Holding the lives of the seven billion people on the surface above them.

He didn't realise he was shaking until he felt Shaun's hand on his back, trying to calm him down.

"Desmond. We should keep looking."

There was something strange in Shaun's voice, something that it took a moment for Desmond to recognise as tenderness. Had the sight of all these people brought out Shaun's human side? Did the Brit even  _have_  a human side?

"Shaun, the baby..."

"It's been fine for thousands of years, Desmond. Why don't we let it sleep a little longer?"

* * *

It wasn't the only baby they saw. There were toddlers as well, and teenagers, and everything in between and beyond. Desmond walked past one tiny old man who must have been at least ninety years old. He and Shaun walked in silence, but the sanctuary was filled with the sound of hundreds of breaths being drawn and exhaled softly. It sounded as though the people of the First Civilisation were whispering to him.

Finally they came to a set of doors, inset with glowing gold patterns. Without thinking about what he was doing, Desmond pulled the Apple out of his pocket and held it aloft. The power coursed through his veins and the doors creaked open. With one last look over his shoulder at the sleeping mass of life behind him, Desmond stepped through.

He instinctively knew that this room was the laboratory, last occupied by Those Who Came Before. That was why he was surprised to find it almost empty. The wall at the far end of the room was shimmering with a soft blue light, like a waterfall, and the rest of the room was lit by those glowing golden lines in the walls. At the centre of the room was what looked like another Animus, but which appeared to be connected to the glowing wall by a complex map of wires running along the ground.

Desmond approached the glowing blue wall slowly. It reminded him a little of the synch nexus. As though in a dream, he thought he caught a glimpse of a ghostly Clay beside him, guiding him towards it, then crumpled on the ground in front of it, letting despair swallow him up as Desmond told him that he would have to stay here, that he would never escape the Animus, _that's not going to happen_. He recalled that he had regretted the refusal as soon as the had made it, at the very second he had seen the last flickers of hope disappear from Clay's face and the brief moment of excitement pass away.

"Well, I guess this is the last safehouse," Shaun said, interrupting Desmond's troubled memories as he stepped forward and ran a hand thoughtfully over the seat of the Animus. "We should go back and get the others now that we've found this place. We only have a few months left to figure out what all this stuff does."

Again, Desmond felt struck by something odd in Shaun's voice. He almost got the impression that the guy was mocking him, which wouldn't be unusual. Shaun did make a good point though; he didn't want to even think about tackling this technology without at least having Rebecca get to grips with it first. "OK, let's go," he said. He gestured towards the door they had just come through. "Do you think they'll be OK?" he asked.

Shaun rolled his eyes. "They seem to be getting along just fine for the moment, Desmond. Let's just hope those Abstergo goons have given up by the time we get back to the surface." He nodded at the Apple. "Come on, take us back."

"Sure, I just have to go back into the Animus and get Clay, then we can go."

Desmond began heading back to the sanctuary room, only to find Shaun blocking his path, staring at him disbelievingly.

"Are you mad? You're finally rid of him! Leave him here. He didn't seem all that eager to get back out anyway, and we'll return here soon enough."

Desmond stepped around him, shaking his head. "I'm not just going to leave him in here, he doesn't know what's going on." He continued walking, only to find his path blocked by Shaun again.

He was standing closer this time, and his eyes were angry and frustrated behind his glasses. "Desmond, I said let's  _go_!"

"Shaun, get out of my way!" Desmond was now annoyed and unnerved enough to shove Shaun hard in the shoulder in order to move him aside. To his surprise, the historian didn't stumble away but instead grabbed hold of Desmond's wrist and twisted it behind his back. Desmond yelled in pain and shock, and found himself too off-balance to co-ordinate any kind of defence when Shaun planted a knee in his back and sent him sprawling to the floor.

Desmond went down hard, and the next thing he knew Shaun had flipped him onto his back and had him pinned onto the cold, inky-black surface.

"Get  _off_  me, Shaun, are you nuts?"

"Am  _I_ nuts? What about you, Desmond? For days now you've been letting some lunatic you met in a computer program take up residence in your head, letting him control you and bloody  _seduce_ you, putting all of our lives at risk. Now you want to invite him back in? Well it's not going to happen." Shaun grabbed hold of the Apple, which had rolled out of Desmond's pocket, and planted it firmly in the hand that he had pinned down to floor. "Take us back, Desmond."

"No way!"

"Do it, you  _stupid asshole_!"

They both froze at the same time. There was an endless moment where Desmond stared up into Shaun's eyes, Shaun's same-as-always-but-somehow-different eyes. He remembered all the tiny things that had been niggling at him ever since they had arrived here. But most unmistakeable of all was the fact that Shaun's stuffy English accent had just slipped in his anger, the accent shifting into one that had never originated in any British isle.

"Oh no," Desmond breathed in horror.

Clay sighed miserably and pressed Shaun's warm, slightly damp forehead against Desmond's. "Why don't you listen?" he whispered hoarsely, making no effort to disguise his voice now. "Why don't you ever listen?"

 


	13. Cold Blood

Desmond probably should have tried to fight back, but he was too weakened by shock and panic. It wasn't until Clay sighed and shifted Shaun's body away that Desmond was able to sit up shakily. He didn't attempt to stand just yet, too hypnotised by the sight of Shaun kneeling by his side with an expression that was completely alien to his face.

"You planned this," Desmond said slowly, speaking the words at the same time as he realised their truth.

Clay nodded sadly. "Never cohesively, it was never something I had fixed down but ... yeah."

"You told Shaun you wanted him to come along ... in case you needed to pick his brains." Desmond gave a choked laugh with more horror than humour in it. "Jesus Christ." He looked up at the ceiling, continuing to laugh for lack of any other conceivable response.

"Hey," Clay said, sounding a little unnerved. He gently cupped the back of Desmond's head with Shaun's hand and forced the other man to look him in the eye. "I'm sorry, I should have told you."

Desmond now had a new appreciation for how creepy it must have been for Shaun to see him being controlled by someone else; to see the familiar, bookish, irritable Shaun speaking softly in Clay's voice and using his expressions was probably the strangest experience of his life. "Would you ever have told me?" he demanded bitterly. "If you hadn't have slipped up, how long would you have waited to tell me what you'd done?"

"I don't know."

" _You'd better fucking know!_ " Desmond screamed furiously, causing Clay to flinch and close his eyes as if he'd been struck. Before he had time to hear an answer, Desmond thought of another question, a much more important one. "What the hell did you do to Shaun? Is he dead? Is he still in the Animus?"

"No!" Clay assured him hurriedly. "I'm keeping his mind suppressed, he probably never even realised what happened."

Desmond shook his head angrily, trying to make sense of it all. "But why are you able to do that with his mind when you weren't able to do it with mine?"

Clay didn't reply. There was a long pause.

"You could have," Desmond said at last, answering his own question. "All that time ... you were only letting me stay in control."

"I don't know. Your mind is stronger than Shaun's, because you've spent almost as much time in the Animus as I have. But I never tried to take you over, Desmond. It would have felt ... wrong."

"And  _this_  isn't wrong?" Desmond countered disgustedly, gesturing with his hands at the body that Clay had commandeered.

The man responded by grabbing Desmond's right hand and squeezing it tightly with his - with Shaun's - fingers. "Listen to me, Desmond!" he said, his voice suddenly much calmer and more in control, much more like the Clay that he had met in the Animus. "I understand why you're freaked out but you should give this some thought. This way we can be together, _really_  together, and I know that we're still trying to work out ... whatever it is that's going on between us, but feel this!" He pulled Desmond's hand to his - Shaun's - chest, pressed it over his heart. The wool of Shaun's sweater was soft against Desmond's palm, against the sensitive surface of his fingertips. "I'm  _here_ now. You don't have to be alone any more."

Desmond pulled away, part of him repulsed by the sight of Shaun being manipulated in this way, and yet another part of him melting beneath the implication of Clay's words. "What about Shaun?" he asked coldly.

Clay stared at him incredulously. "What  _about_ Shaun, Desmond? He's made your life a living hell ever since you rejoined the Assassins! I felt your blood boil every time he opened his mouth to make another one of his vicious little remarks. You hated Shaun, and he hated you. Can you honestly tell me you're going to miss him?"

"No, I'm not going to miss him, Clay, because you're going to wake him up again and get the hell out of his head!"

He didn't realise that he'd gone too far until it was too late. Shaun's face contorted in anger and he leapt forward again, grabbing Desmond by the throat and pinning him to the floor. Desmond fought to free himself, but he had been weakened by his time in the Animus and Clay's fury imbued Shaun's wiry frame with strength.

"You did this to me!" he yelled, straddling Desmond's legs to keep them pinned to the floor. "I was ready to go back into the Animus, and it would have been hard but I would have survived it! But no, you said you were taking me with you, you made me believe I'd have a body again one day. You gave me  _hope_ , Desmond Miles. You son of a bitch." He was still shouting, but Desmond saw a tear roll down Shaun's cheek. "And now you have the fucking  _nerve_ to treat me like I'm some kind of a monster? For taking what you promised me? Well  _fuck you_."

But his voice broke on the last words, and he suddenly relaxed his grip on Desmond's throat, leaned forward and kissed him so hard that Desmond tasted blood. He didn't know if it was his blood or Shaun's. He couldn't feel pain any more, not even the pain of his skull being pressed onto the cold, unnaturally smooth floor of the sanctuary. Without realising why, he found himself kissing back with a violent, devouring hunger, bringing his hands up to grip Clay's sides and pull him closer. At some point he realised that he was painfully hard and pushing up against the thigh that Clay had pressed between his legs, creating an unbearable heat and friction...

"You see," the other man gasped into Desmond's mouth as he broke away for air. "You see how badly you want this. I've been wanting it too, God ... you have no idea."

One of Clay's hands ran slowly down Desmond's flank, just as it had in the illusion he'd experienced whilst holding the Apple. Except ... it wasn't Clay's hand. It was Shaun's.

_For the last time, Desmond, would you shut up and get back into your ancestor's memories? I'd like to live to be an ancestor myself one day._

Shaun. Irritating, bad-tempered, selfish Shaun. Shaun who had given him nothing but grief since he'd arrived, with no provocation whatsoever. Shaun, who treated every conversation with Desmond like a trial he had to endure. Shaun, who had outright accused Desmond of murdering Lucy in cold blood. Shaun, who had loved Lucy like a sister, and cried at her funeral. Shaun, who would like to live to be an ancestor himself one day.

Shaun. Who had wanted to  _live_.

"No."

It was the hardest syllable Desmond had ever uttered. He pushed Shaun's body away from him, meeting no resistance this time. Clay stared at him through stolen eyes and stolen glasses, breathing heavily, his cheeks flushed, staring at Desmond with trepidation.

Desmond stumbled to his feet, his heart racing so fast that it hurt. "I promised you a body. You can have mine."

"What?" Clay stood up as well, contorting Shaun's face into a perplexed expression.

"I give you my word. We'll both go back into the Animus, I'll let you into my mind and you can have full control. Just let Shaun go - he never promised you anything."

"You can't do that! The others, they need you..."

"They don't need me, they just need my DNA. You're more used to this technology than I am anyway, and your mind is stronger. What the Assassins need now is your mind in my body." Desmond smiled sadly. "I can't save the world. I'm just a bartender."

Clay was shaking Shaun's head in disbelief. "I don't want to  _be_  you, Desmond. I want to be with you."

"I know. I'm sorry."

And with that, Desmond took an abrupt step forward and embraced the strange Clay/Shaun hybrid in his arms, holding in his right hand the Apple that he had snatched from the floor as he was standing up. He concentrated only a little, and it was enough to make the white light of the artefact fill the room until it broke apart at the seams.


	14. The Jigsaw

"Damnit, Miss Stillman, I though we had solved this little problem!"

"It's not a problem that can be solved, Warren, not without a complete rebuild of the Animus. I said I could give him a little bit more time in there before it overheated, but we've been pushing him so hard..."

"I've heard this argument before, Miss Stillman, and it's starting to bore me. We'll stop for today but I want that machine cooled down and ready for a fourteen-hour session starting tomorrow morning."

"Fourteen hours? Warren, you can't be serious!"

The glass monitor of the Abstergo Animus slid away from his eyes, and he sat up just in time to see Warren Vidic sweeping out of the room without bothering to reply. He jumped a little as he felt a cool hand touch his back, and realised how hot his skin was.

"Are you feeling OK? I'm sorry, I'll have a word with him..."

" _Je ne m'inquiète pas. Baisez-tous les deux vous_."

He jumped down from the Animus and stalked into his bedroom, Lucy's form lost in the swirls of grey ghost-like forms that he was now growing accustomed to. Gritting his teeth as he forced himself to walk through the vague form of a horse that wasn't really there, he slammed his fist down on the button that would close the door behind him.

He walked on into the bathroom and planted his hands on either side of the sink as the exhaustion suddenly caught up with him. Then he looked up into the mirror.

_No_ , Desmond thought.  _This isn't possible_.

"Fourteen hours," his reflection muttered, before giving a sharp, slightly hysterical laugh.

_What's going on? Why is this happening?_  Desmond struggled to hold on to his own thoughts as Clay stared back at him in the mirror. The man had a thick layer of stubble on his face and his eyes were hollow and sunken into his skull. He looked completely wrecked, except for the blazing, unhinged glint in his eye.

Desmond watch helplessly as he felt his fist being drawn up, and then smashed into the mirror, breaking the glass and at least two of the bones in his fingers. The pain was agonising, but at least it grounded him and forced the ghosts of the bleeding effect away from his field of vision. Where he had broken through the mirror, the cracked lens of a security camera was staring beadily at him.

He looked down from his fractured expression at a large shard of glass which had fallen into the sink. He picked it up, with every slither of Desmond's fastly dissipating mind struggling to stop him, and pressed it into the flesh of his palm to make the first cut.

"No!" Desmond struggled and then twisted his consciousness free of Clay's body, with the same kind of mental acrobatic move that he'd occasionally use to wake up from a nightmare, and found himself back in the main Animus room, lying on the ground and still breathing heavily from the rush of adrenaline he'd felt as the glass bit into his - Clay's - skin. It took him a second to realise that the floor he was lying on was covered in blood.

Desmond gave a yell of disgust and scrambled to his feet, staring down at the familiar patterns. For some reason, his movement hadn't disturbed the still-wet blood at all, leaving the patterns clear and distinct with an odd kind of artistry. He looked around.

Shaun was lying flat on his back with his eyes closed next to the bank of computer servers. From this distance, it was impossible to tell whether he was breathing or not. Near to his feet, Clay was sitting on the small set of steps leading up to the raised platform staring thoughtfully at another Clay, this one thin and deathly pale and soaked in his own blood, shaking as he tried to finish his work. He was dipping his fingers into a wound in his stomach, and using them to write numbers in a grid pattern on the floor. His body was now criss-crossed with ragged cuts of varying sizes, making him look like some kind of sick jigsaw puzzle, and there was a mad, fixed grin on his face as he muttered to himself in a mix of languages.

"What's going on?" Desmond managed to ask, moving in a circle around the babbling, crazed man painting with his own blood.

"I don't properly remember this bit," the other Clay replied dreamily. "But we must be close to the end. I was ... I'd finished leaving the message."

The memory of Clay finally sat back, his eyes unfocused and starting to grow dim.

"I was nearly done."

The shard of mirror was lying nearby, and Clay reached for it with trembling, bloodied fingers. Desmond realised what he was going to do a split second before it happened, but didn't look away in time to avoid seeing the glass tearing into the soft flesh of Clay's throat. The bubbling, choking sounds echoed around the room until Desmond thought he would be deafened by them.

"But I wasn't ready to go. I didn't want to die, I just wanted to escape from  _them_."

Clutching at his throat, his skin almost completely covered in blood like some kind of ancient war paint, the dying version of Clay staggered to his feet and fell over again immediately, managing to latch onto the Animus as he went down. With every ounce of his dwindling strength, he groaned and pulled himself up and onto the cool slab of the machine, and lay back with a whimper as the HUD slid over his eyes. Desmond saw it begin to glow as Clay started downloading his mind into the Animus.

"Pretty dramatic, huh?" the other Clay laughed bitterly, getting up from the steps and standing next to Desmond. He stared at his dying form without any outward signs of emotion.

"I'm sorry," Desmond whispered, having no idea what else he was supposed to say.

"It doesn't have to end like this, Desmond." Clay tore his eyes away from the Animus to look the other man in the eye. He gestured at Shaun's prone body. "He's just sleeping, he's not in any kind of pain. We can be together, Desmond. I can live again."

"I told you, you can have my body..."

"I don't want it! How could I take that from you now? I owe you too much, Desmond, but neither one of us owes Shaun anything."

Desmond look into his pleading eyes and felt the touch of Clay's hand on the side of his face. He reached out and stroked Clay's hair, and as he touched him the image in front of him shimmered until it was Shaun he was looking at, and Shaun's hair between his fingers, as though Clay was showing him what might be. Another flicker and it was Clay who stood before him again. Another, and it was some odd mix of the two of them.

Desmond slid his hand down until he was holding onto Clay by the shoulder. Then he tightened his grip and began pushing the other man towards the Animus.

Clay's eyes widened. "No," he whimpered. "No, Desmond."

"I'm sorry."

Clay began struggling wildly but in here Desmond was strong and he forced the other man back until he was crushed against the now-still body in the Animus. There was only a slight resistance before the two Clays melded together, the bloodstains on his skin and clothes fading in and out as the twin images battles for dominance. Desmond closed his eyes and ears to Clay's pleas and held him there for what seemed like hours, until he stopped struggling, until the flesh in Desmond's hands ceased its twitching and fighting. He felt his whole body shaking, saw streaks starting to appear in the dried blood on the Clay's face and realised that he was crying, his whole body racked with the force of the tears until he could hardly breathe, and he was repeating a mantra of "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

Clay didn't reply this time, didn't absolve him. His appearance had stopped shifting and what was left behind was the limp, pathetic, bloodsoaked Clay of the past, blood now oozing from the wound in his throat instead of spraying from it.

The skin underneath Desmond's fingers was cold now, and he was suddenly disgusted by the contact with it. He let go at last, and somewhere beyond the vision his grip on the Apple of Eden loosened, whisking Abstergo away with it and leaving Desmond standing in front of a different Animus.

Shuan was sitting up in it, blinking groggily, and Desmond knew instinctively that this time it  _was_ Shaun. The man looked around the room, and then at Desmond, blinking away his disorientation.

"How long have you been awake?" he demanded, looking annoyed. "I thought we both left at the same time."

Desmond opened his mouth and then closed it again, too tired to try and explain what had happened. "Not long," he replied, almost inaudibly.

Shaun gave him a strange look and then looked around at the room they were in. He stood up from the Animus and walked over to the glowing wall it was connected to. He reached out his fingers until they were almost touching it.

"Fascinating. D'you think perhaps it's connected up to the others..." His voice trailed away and he stood there for a moment looking confused.

"The others?" Desmond prompted, his mouth still operating mostly on autopilot.

"In the ... In the other chamber there are ... there are people from the First Civilisation..." Shaun ran out of words again and began rubbing his temple as if he had a terrible headache. "Desmond did ... did something happen here?"

Desmond didn't reply. He rested one hand on the Animus in front of him, not looking at Shaun.

"Have you been  _crying_?" The half-sneer in Shaun's voice filled Desmond with a sudden violent urge to punch him in the face. Then, as if the idea had taken on life, he saw Shaun dab at his mouth and make a noise of surprise and indignance.

"Why is my lip bleeding?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translation: "I don't care. Fuck the both of you."
> 
> Clay's death scene in this chapter differs slightly from game canon. In the games, he didn't have anything particularly sharp in his room, so he wound up stabbing his wrists open with a ballpoint pen until he bled out. I wasn't aware of this when I wrote Thirty-Three and considered giving it a full rewrite now, but ultimately decided to keep it the way it is. The only changes made to this chapter are minor improvements of dialogue/description.


	15. Saviour

They returned to the surface, Desmond using the Apple's power to create a kind of illusory cloak that disguised them both from view. The Abstergo agents were nowhere to be seen, but taking no chances they remained under cover until they reached the van. Shaun drove them back in silence, occasionally glancing over at Desmond nervously. He even drove deliberately slowly in an attempt to provoke some kind of reaction from the silent man, but with no success.

By the time they arrived back at the safehouse, William and Rebecca were caught somewhere between panic and fury. Rebecca hugged both of them fiercely when they walked through the door, and then proceeded to yell at them for about five minutes about how worried she'd been. They gathered together in the Animus room and Desmond left it to Shaun to recount the story of where they had been, including the bits with "that bloody ghost". A lot of it was inaccurate, exaggerated, or deliberately distorted to make Desmond seem like a naive, bumbling idiot, but Shaun finished the story without any interruption from the other witness.

It all felt to Desmond just the same as being in the Animus and living someone else's life - experiencing it passively. When Rebecca and William finally gave up asking questions and set about packing for a return to the temple, Desmond returned to his room and shut the door.

He was sitting there now, slowly and methodically twisting his Rubik's cube, listening to the tiny mechanisms in it going  _click-click-click_. He had one side entirely blue now, and another completely red save for one square.

_Click_.

He set it down slowly on the bedside dresser and sat on the edge of the bed, as if all the gears in his body were grinding to a halt.

He had killed people before, both inside the Animus and in real life, but what he had done to Clay had been more intimate and more horrifying than murder. He had taken a man who had survived things he couldn't possibly imagine, lured him out of the Animus with the promise of a second chance, allowed him to stay just long enough to experience all the joy and beauty of life, and then snatched it all away once again. His actions could not have been more terrible even had he deliberately been stringing Clay along for the pure vindictive pleasure of it all, to make that last moment of pinpoint cruelty more devastating.

The Apple often communicated in metaphors, a language that Desmond had never fully understood, and so he didn't know if his actions had finally killed Clay forever or just left him trapped and broken. He remembered how indifferent his hands had been to the man's final struggles. He remembered the way time had slowed down as he slid his blade into Lucy's guts. Clay's blood seeping into the cracks of the Animus. Lucy, bleeding out on the cold floor of the Colosseum

Some Chosen One. Some saviour. Perhaps he was working for the Templars after all.

"Desmond?"

Desmond hadn't even heard the door open. His father was standing over him, and the look on his face made Desmond want to scream. He looked so  _proud_.

"We're getting ready to go, son. You got anything you want to take with you?"

Desmond shook his head numbly. William laid a hand on his shoulder.

"You did well, son. We have a chance now."

If he'd had the energy, Desmond would have laughed at the horrible irony of it all. "It wasn't me," he managed at last. "I didn't do anything."

He wanted William to tell him not to be an idiot, to tell him to hurry up, to walk out of the room. Instead, his father sat down on the bed next to him.

_Go away_ , Desmond thought, trying to project the thought as hard as he could.  _Go away_.

"Shaun said there was a man. Subject Sixteen?"

"His name was Clay Kaczmarek."

"Shaun didn't tell us his name."

"He didn't know what it was."

William was silent for a moment. "Did he do something to hurt you, Desmond?"

The convulsion that shook Desmond felt like a laugh, but didn't sound like one. "No, Dad. I hurt him."

William didn't reply to that. Instead, he looked sidelong at his son with eyes full of a parent's sorrow at seeing their child suffer something that cannot be fixed.

Desmond took a deep, shuddering breath and put his head in his hands. "I fucked up, Dad. I ... I..." But that was all he could get out. He felt his father's arm on his shoulders, pulling him close to try and comfort him, but Desmond couldn't cry. To cry would have been catharsis, and he didn't think that was something he'd ever feel again.

* * *

They returned to the temple under the cover of darkness, carrying as many supplies as they could manage. They wanted to keep their returns to the surface as infrequent as possible, since for all they knew Abstergo were still watching the hill and waiting for an opportunity to strike. Desmond carried more than his share, wanting to tire out his muscles, the weight of the pack and boxes a strange comfort to him.

He had already described the Animi chamber to the others, but nothing could truly prepare Rebecca and William for the sight of all those members of the First Civilisation, alive and breathing, laid out before them. Shaun tried to act nonchalant, but Desmond could see that he was disturbed by the sight of them and suspected that he was experiencing  _deja vu_ from the last time he had seen them, when Clay had been in control of his mind.

It was decided by general consensus that they would not wake up the dormant mass of people just yet. They didn't know enough about how delicate a state they were in, and their food supplies were limited enough as it was. Rebecca set to work hooking up the occupied machines to her computer, each in turn, to collect data about how they were being kept alive by the Animi. Meanwhile, since it was so late, the others began setting up camp beds amidst their ancestors. There were no walls in the chamber, but it was large enough that by setting up far away from each other they were each granted a measure of privacy.

Desmond set up his bed next to the baby with the dark tuft of hair on its head. The Animus next to it was empty so he sat down and for over an hour watched its tiny chest rise and fall with silent breaths. Once he thought he saw it curl a delicate little fist and he wondered whether it was reliving the memories of an ancestor, whether inside its head the infant had already killed men, or built empires, or raised a family of its own.

The thought disturbed him, so he finally hopped down from the Animus and lay on his camp bed. In the distance he could hear Shaun's snores and he suspected that the others were asleep too, lulled to sleep by the gentle, rhythmic sounds of breathing in the room.

Desmond couldn't sleep, though. He reached into his pack and searched with his fingers for one of the few "non-essentials" he'd brought with him.

_Click-click-click_.

Here they were, in the final stretch, with still months left to decipher the messages from Those Who Came Before and prevent the sun flares from destroying the planet. All their sacrifices had brought them here, right to where they needed to be.

_Click-click-click_.

It was no use. He'd never been ruled by reason. He'd never been as cool and logical as an Assassin was supposed to be, had never been able to look at the bigger picture. It was why he had run away in the first place; mixing a gin and tonic was so much easier than trying to grasp concepts like honour or sacrifice in any kind of practical way.

_Click-click-click_.

At least in six months, this would all be over. Whatever happened.

_Click_.

Desmond heard footsteps approaching.

"Hey, Des. You still awake?" Rebecca cocked her head to one side and flashed him a tired smile.

"Guess so," he said, offering her a smile in return. He sat up on his camp bed and she came over and perched on the empty Animus. "You been working?"

She shrugged and grinned. "You know me. I couldn't possibly sleep with all this..." She waved her hand around vaguely at the chamber. "I can't believe we really made it."

"Yeah. Me neither." Desmond looked up at her and noticed that she was unusually morose. "You learn anything from the First Civs yet?"

She rubbed the back of her neck with one hand. "Yeah. It's not all good news. Basically these Animi are like our ones, only a hundred times more advanced. We really butchered the design when we rediscovered it, and we only unlocked a tiny part of their potential." She patted the machine she was leaning on affectionately. "These ones, they act like a life support system combined with cryogenics, Des. These people, they keep breathing and their hearts keep beating, but they haven't aged a day since they were put inside."

Desmond nodded patiently, but Rebecca could tell he was unimpressed. She laughed at him. "Yeah, I know, don't need a science degree to work that out, right? It's a lot more complicated than that, obviously, but those along with the virtual reality program form the three basic functions of the Animus."

"That sounds like good news to me."

Rebecca nodded, raising her eyebrows in an attempt to look optimistic. "It is, it really is. But I've been measuring their brainwave activity. Most of them are functioning at a normal rate, so I'm guessing they're in some kind of fairly low-demand virtual reality program. But some of them..." She sighed and shook her head. "I've only managed to test about fifty of them so far, but of those fifty ... three of them have already suffered brain death. The machines keep them ticking, keep inflating their lungs, but if we disconnect them they'll just die. The lights are on, but no one's at home, y'know?"

Desmond looked at her and felt a swell of warmth and affection for the girl. Rebecca kept up a brash front, but she was sensitive really and hated the thought of people suffering and dying. "Hey," he said. "Forty-seven out of fifty isn't bad. That means most of the people in here can still be saved." He paused. "What happened to those three, did you think?"

She shrugged. "Maybe they were already injured when they were put into the Animus. If they were taken into sanctuary after the solar flares hit they would have breathed in all sorts of toxic fumes, so any one of them could have killed them. Or maybe it was just from staying inside the Animus for too long. Hard to say."

She looked so down that Desmond got to his feet and patted her on the shoulder, just as his father had done for him earlier. "I'm sorry, Rebecca."

She seemed to recover a little and put on a brave, cocky smile. "Hey, don't worry about it, Des. Like you said, forty-seven out of fifty ain't bad. Especially for a bunch of fossils." They stayed there for a moment, leaning against the Animus and looking at the baby in front of them. Desmond suddenly experienced a pang of anxiety.

"What about that little guy? You think he's still ticking?"

Rebecca laughed. "Definitely. Look at his eyes."

Desmond looked. Sure enough, he could see movement under the lids.

"Trust me, we should make the most of it while he's still asleep. As soon as we wake him up he'll be screaming and pooping like a champ." Rebecca stood up and socked Desmond playfully in the arm. "Right, I'm going to try and get some sleep. You should do the same. Night, Des."

"Goodnight, Rebecca."

After she was gone Desmond lay back down on his camp bed, but didn't fall asleep right away. He reached under his pillow and pulled out the heavy pistol from where he'd hurriedly shoved it after hearing Rebecca's approach.

He turned it over in his hands, then pulled the trigger.

_Click_.

The noise seemed to echo a little inside the empty magazine slot. Desmond had the bullets in his pack but didn't reach for them. He was thinking about what Rebecca had said.

_The lights are on, but no one's at home_.

"Don't be stupid, Desmond," he said aloud.

He fell asleep with the gun in his hand.

 


	16. Epilogue

He slept fitfully and woke up long before dawn. The lights in the sanctuary had somehow been programmed to reflect the time of day above the surface, so they were currently dimmed almost to non-existence. Most of the light was currently shining from the Animi, so that in the inky darkness they looked like stars.

The fleeting thought he'd had before falling asleep had now crystallised into a certainty, and so Desmond sat up on the camp bed. As if in a trance, he reached into his pack and grabbed the magazine, slotting it into the pistol. He laid the firearm down next to him on the bed and sat looking directly ahead, waiting.

He didn't need to wait long. Soon he heard soft footfalls approaching, the sound of someone moving through the rows of machines towards him. When they sounded less than 20 feet away, Desmond closed his eyes.

The footsteps stopped by his camp bed.

"How many of them didn't make it?" Desmond asked.

There was a pause. "Thirty-two. Most of them very old, or very young."

Desmond opened his eyes and looked over at him, taking in as much as he could in the low light. The man standing at the end of his bed seemed to be in his mid-twenties. He had scruffy dark hair that looked as though it would be very difficult to tame without copious amounts of gel, although it could just be thousands of years' worth of bed-head. His eyes were a warm shade of brown, his skin was pale, and the slight dimples in his cheeks made him look younger than he really was.

"I guess you got lucky," Desmond said. "Or he got unlucky. Whichever way you look at it."

"You knew," Clay said softly.

"I guessed." Desmond shook his head. "Rebecca told me that some of the people here were just bodies without minds and it just seemed to ... make sense."

Clay looked down at the pistol on the camp bed next to Desmond. He was silent for a long time, and when he spoke again he sounded a little too casual. "Is that for me?"

"Yes. It is."

Clay took a deep, shuddering breath. "I understand, Desmond. But it's not necessary. If you want me to, I'll give up this body. Go back into the Animus. Just ... try to find some way to delete my consciousness, please. Death is better than a half-life."

Desmond shook his head. He stood up, picking up the pistol along the way, and turned to face Clay. He held the gun out with the muzzle facing towards himself. "I told you, it's for you."

Clay just stared at him, so Desmond continued.

"Do what you want, I won't stop you. What I did to you in the Animus ... I ... Look, just take the gun."

Clay took the gun and looked down at it for a second. "You think I came back to kill you?" he asked quietly.

"I thought you should at least have the option."

Clay considered this for a moment, pointing the gun so that the muzzle was pressed against Desmond's abdomen. The Assassin suppressed a shudder and tensed his muscles as he felt the cold from the metal seeping through his T-shirt.

"I was ready to take another man's life away for the sake of extending my own," Clay said steadily. "The person I was before the Templars got their hands on me would have turned this gun on himself before allowing that to happen. I like to think that there's still something of that person left. I like to think they didn't get all of me." He pulled the gun away from Desmond's stomach and flipped the safety on before tossing it onto the camp bed. "I should thank you for stopping me before it was too late."

Desmond released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding in one long rush, and his shoulders slumped. He sat down on the camp bed, and Clay sat down next to him in his strange new body. He examined Desmond's face carefully in the low light as he spoke.

"I checked, you know. To be one hundred and ten per cent sure. This body ... it was just lying there, empty. No memories, no thoughts, nothing. Just a blank slate. But I'll give it up if you think this is wrong. I've decided that you're a better judge of that than I am."

Desmond shook his head wearily. "The First Civilisation probably invented recycling aeons before we did. I'm sure they won't mind."

He looked sidelong at Clay's rueful grin, and realised that it had been a while since he had last needed to recognise the man by his face. It was now his mannerisms, his way of speaking and the character of his expressions that made up who he was, so for the first time it didn't feel unnatural to see him using a face and a body that were not his own. The part of Desmond that he had tried to bury noticed that Clay's new form was just as enticing to look at as his original one; his dark hair stood out in an interesting contrast to his fair skin, and his body was tall, slim and lined with lean muscle.

Clay looked over and Desmond suddenly realised that he was staring and hurriedly averted his gaze again. "It's been a strange week," he said, suddenly very conscious of the way his blood was thrumming through his veins.

Clay grinned at him, a full, open and honest grin this time that wasn't lined with sadness, pain or regret. It was a joy to look at. "You know, Desmond. I'm not just some dead guy now. I'm not just a voice in your head."

"No, I guess you're not."

"I'm not some kind of horror movie spook possessing your colleague."

"No," Desmond consented again.

"So now all the weird stuff is out of the way, where does that leave us?"

Desmond rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly feeling very tired. "I ... you're still a guy, Clay. I mean, it's kind of weird. For me."

But was it really weird any more? He noticed Clay's hand resting on the metal bar of the camp bed next to him, and it didn't feel weird to reach over and lay his own hand over it, intertwining their fingers. It didnt feel weird when Clay responded to the touch by turning his head and nuzzling Desmond's throat, then his earlobe, before finally pulling his head back a little and then leaning in to touch Desmond's lips with his own.

This time there was no violence or blinding lust when they kissed. It was slow, tentative, a little clumsy and it felt incredibly  _good_. Desmond ran his tongue lightly over Clay's bottom lip before nipping it gently with his teeth, and used his free hand to tug a little on Clay's shirt, to encourage him closer. He felt the tensions of everything that had happened over the past few weeks melting away. He laid his body down on the blessedly strong camp bed and Clay moved over him, all the while their mouths barely parting from each other.

Desmond whispered against Clay's mouth, "I'm totally meditating right now."

He was immediately rewarded with the sensation of Clay's body shaking against his with surprised laughter.

* * *

They didn't have sex that night, because while Desmond had given up any reservations he'd had around the same time that he and Clay had stopped kissing for just long enough to take off most of their clothes, this was all still rather new to him and he was hesitant to rush into it. Besides which, there were effectively three other people in the room. As the dawn of the Animus chamber approached, Desmond lay with Clay's body pressed against his back, one arm hooked around Desmond's torso with the fingers curled into his chest. It was as much a measure to prevent Clay from rolling backwards out of the  _very_  narrow camp bed as it was a gesture of intimacy.

The breathing of the people in the Animi filled the air around them, and Desmond felt Clay exhale deeply in his sleep along with them, the breath stirring the small hairs at the nape of Desmond's neck. There would probably be a lot of questions soon, along with suggestive digs from Rebecca, snide remarks and antagonism from Shaun, and what would undoubtedly be an extremely awkward conversation with his father. But just then, Desmond couldn't quite bring himself to care.

 


End file.
